My Sainted Dead Husband

Tree Trimming

2012-01-01T15:23:00.002-06:00

Hey there-

Ah, trimming the tree.

A lovely ritual. Rich with tradition and chock full of memories.

These sweet memories can quickly turn to land mines for a widowed person.

I will never forget the first Christmas after Bob died. Rosie cheeked from our trek through the woods to cut down the tree, plus the effort it took to haul it in the house and get it in the stand, Henry, Arthur and I (plus Bob's sisters....bless their souls) plunged into the carefully packed ornament bins.

As a side note I should mention that the bins had been packed by Bob the year before. I know this because nothing I packed was ever careful. I am more of a 'just get the stuff in there' kind of a packer. The first time Bob and I had to pack and move anywhere I thought we might not make it as a couple as he looked on in disgust, packing paper in hand, while I threw kitchen appliances willy nilly into a box with abandon.

I will freely admit that on that first Christmas without Bob I was already emotionally fragile embarking on the tree trimming without my light hanging guy. But, for the children, I bravely opened the first bin with feigned glee. There, neatly folded on the top of the pile, was a cheery red, white and green knit stocking with 'Bob' across the top.

ugh! Really? Really Bob? You had to put your stocking on the top?

Well, for me, it was down hill from that point. Each ornament I dutifully unwrapped and handed to Henry's eager tiny hand seemed to hold a memory of a trip Bob and I had gone on together. I felt compelled to share each story with the group, as if I might forget where each ornament was obtained now that Bob was not with me to reminisce.

"This cardinal was from our honeymoon in Bayfield, this tree we got when we went to San Francisco one Christmas, this cow your Uncle Eugene sent us the first Christmas we lived in Oregon, this one your dad and I bought when we went to Mt. St. Helens, it's made out of the ash from the eruption........"

That first tree trimming was difficult to say the least. Each ornament on the tree was another stab at my wounded heart. I wondered if I would ever be able to gaze at the Christmas tree with a whole, light heart again.

A couple years later there came the first tree trimming that Mike and I and our newly blended family did together.

More land mines.

Could I tell the story of the cardinal ornament purchased on Bob and my honeymoon to the group? While I contemplated this question Henry went ahead and joyfully told the story of the cardinal ornament he had been listening to the past several years.

Uh.....awkward.......

Fast forward several more years to this year, 2011, another tree trimming. Henry (11) dives for the ornament box labeled 'Irene and Bob' and carefully begins to unwrap the neatly packed items within. (yes, I neatly packed them :-)) Sam (13) finds the box marked 'Mike and Irene' and begins to unpack the ornaments that Mike has given me as gifts the last few years. Someone else finds the 'McHoganStein' ornament my sister gave us our first Christmas as a merged family and up on the tree it goes.

"Where is the Mt St. Helen's ornament?" Sam asks, looking around the tissue strewn living room, "oh, here it is." He hands the smooth, round, grayish blue ornament to me and I find the perfect place on the tree for it, in between the infamous cardinal and the mustard yellow glass heart Mike gave me last year.

Later that night, after the boxes were put away and the kids were in bed I sat on the couch sipping some red wine and gazed at the tree for a bit. The 'Bob and Irene' ornaments hung next to the "Mike and Irene' ornaments as if they were always meant to hang on that tree together.

Life does move forward, against all odds and sometimes against our will, it moves boldly forward.

My heart feels whole.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Four Letter Word

2011-11-15T12:09:00.001-06:00

Hey there-

Compare.

The four letter word of relationships after widowhood.

I talk about using an "inside voice" when those nasty thoughts occur. Unless, of course, the comparison is in the live guys favor, and then use the outside voice.

Well, my inside voice was rather loud last night and I'm just gonna let it out, so be prepared.

There are times that I miss Bob more than others. The boys birthdays, Christmas concerts, school conferences, our anniversary, the usual stuff.

And then there is football season.

Ugh!

I really didn't appreciate Bob's lack of interest in major league sports enough.

Before all of you Mike fans get your undies in a bunch I will say this:

Last night as the Packers played the Vikings (I hear it was a big game) Mike folded some laundry and sorted through the unmatched socks pile. With five children the sock task could actually take an entire football game and I hate it!

Gotta give the guy credit for speaking my love language, something Bob rarely thought about.

So, I did it, I compared out loud. That wasn't so bad was it?

I feel better anyway.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

What would Carol Brady do?

2011-11-09T16:16:00.000-06:00

Hey there-

Dear Mike, Welcome to our classroom! Please don't spend to much time talking to pepel. Love, Arthur

This was a recent note Arthur wrote to Mike for a back to school event. Our family thought the note was hysterical when I showed it to everyone at dinner the next time we were all together. We understand the note was in reference to the fact that Mike knows EVERYONE and talks to everyone ALL THE TIME. The kids regularly freak out when Mike will "run into" a store to pick something up because he takes forever since he will invariably see someone he knows and start chatting. Don't even get me started on trying to get him out of coffee hour at church.

The teacher, on the other hand, did not understand the note. When Mike tried to explain that Arthur was mocking him she thought it was because he called him "Mike" in the note and not "Dad". Upon further explanation she still didn't really get it, she was stuck on the fact that Arthur did not call Mike "Dad".

"But he's the only dad he's ever known, right?" she said to me nonchalantly.

Ouch!

This issue confounds people. I am counted in those people who are confounded.

Mike's kids call me Irene and no one says a word about it. But, then, they have a mom. My kids have a dad, he just happens to be dead. As the quote goes; death ends a life not a relationship.

It's complicated. I will look at the THREE boys and say; "Go ask Mike...your dad."

What is that?

It has been suggested to me that I simply start calling Mike "Dad" when referring to him with my boys. But I just can't seem to do it, it feels weird at this point somehow, kind of like suddenly changing the name you call your child when they turn five.

My two boys and I were recently watching re-runs of The Brady Bunch. Ah, the Brady's, things were so simple for them. They were both widowed yet you never heard any mention of their late spouses names, no one ever had a melt down while decorating the Christmas tree, none of the children ever seemed to be grieving or conflicted regarding the loss of a parent, they had no "picture issues", and the kids called the new parent mom and/or dad without any hesitation.

hmmmmmm......

Of course, the room the three boys shared on the show looks NOTHING like the room our three boys share here in real life, plus we have no live-in housekeeper, so what is the use of comparing, really? I guess any issue that takes longer than 22 minutes to solve was not written into the script, and we are at five years plus for this one. That would be one long sitcom episode.

Maybe we should pick some kind of word for Mike that isn't "dad" but shows endearment and male leadership. Something like "pop" or "pa" or "father" (I know that one is not terribly endearing).

But then I feel terms of endearment should come naturally and not be assigned. Besides, that wouldn't solve the problem of addressing all the children at once anyway. I would still be using two different words when referring to Mike/ dad/ pop.

ugh!

Anyway, last night Arthur, Mike and I were on the couch watching The Sing Off. Arthur was sprawled between us with his feet draped over Mike's legs and his head in my lap. Mike pulled Arthur's toes while Arthur giggled. When I look around our house I see a framed picture Arthur drew of our family for Mike for his birthday one year with "Mike" front and center in the picture, lots of scribbled curly hair on top of his head. In the kitchen hangs a house Arthur made last year with three big hearts and the word "mom" following each heart. After I hung it on the wall he added three little hearts followed by "dad" to "complete the picture".

I think about all this and I wonder if it really matters what Arthur calls Mike.

It is the way he feels about him that matters.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Choices

2011-09-13T10:10:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

I was driving Arthur to his guitar lesson recently.

We got into one of those random conversations that happen in a car with a seven year old. Somehow it came up that I had only wanted to have one child and that after a while his dad and I had changed our minds and how lucky we were to have changed our minds because,"what would we do without you, Arthur?"

"Yea," he said enthusiastically from the backseat, "and I wouldn't have been able to go to San Antonio, or Yellowstone, or New York, or Florida......."

(I found it interesting that the trips we have taken were first on his mind of what he would have missed.)

In my usual fashion of giving too much information I tried explaining my belief that if he had not been born to Bob and I then his spirit would have gone to another family and maybe they would have gone on even better trips.

At this point we had arrived at our destination and were walking across the street towards the guitar shop. He looked up at me wide eyed after I said this and adjusted the guitar on his shoulder.

"Well, I would have had to run away from that family and find YOU mom," he said shaking his head and looking back down at the street.

A few days later I was washing dishes when Arthur started asking me some specifics about the time frame of Bob's death. He wanted to know how old he was when Bob died and the like. I didn't think much about it initially because this is not an unusual line of questioning around our house. But then he surprised me-

"Well, it's a good thing I wasn't born to that other family because you really needed me."

That statement made me pause.

I thought back to being early in my pregnancy with Arthur and the knife in the belly fear I felt when Bob was first diagnosed. I remembered Arthur being a newborn and Bob dying and the hazy exhaustion that consumed me. I remembered the many times I thought that I didn't need Arthur. As a matter of fact, I often thought about how much easier life would be without an infant to care for.

And then I thought about my friend's belief that children choose their parents. And my sister's belief that children come into the world knowing what their parents need from them.

I don't know why Bob and I changed our minds about a second child when we did.

I don't know why Arthur would have chosen to come into the situation he did.

But I'm glad we did and I'm glad he did.

Because one thing I do know is that Arthur was right, I did need him.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Beautiful Dreamer

2011-08-10T08:48:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

I was busted last night.

Both boys (7 & 11) had teeth pulled yesterday. Or should I say they had teeth wiggled out yesterday. Apparently that is what the dentist likes to say so she doesn't have kids bolting from the room after they hear words like extracted or yanked. Both of my boys are very stoic in these situations and they came out of the room with slight smirks on their faces and bloody gauze hanging out of their mouths.

The dentist had told them they deserved something special from the tooth fairy after being so brave so they both left notes for the tooth fairy so she knew these teeth were pulled and didn't just fall out. I dutifully snuck into their room later to exchange the teeth for the loot. (I give $1 per tooth.....OK I splurged and gave them each $2 after the nice dentist practically forced me to....) I had trouble finding Arthur's and had to dig around a bit before locating the baggie with his note neatly taped to it; "This was pulled" was all it said. After securing the money and the note I (the tooth fairy, sorry) wrote for him; "Good work" under his pillow I moved on to Henry's tooth.

I crept to his bed and stretched my arm up to reach my hand gently under his pillow and..........his little head popped up with a huge smile on his face.

"The dentist told me I was too old to believe in the tooth fairy," he said.

This coming from a guy who, when he was 5, told me he didn't believe in the Easter bunny.

"Why would a bunny leave eggs for people? That just doesn't make any sense."

You're right, Henry, it doesn't make any sense.

I went upstairs to share the story with Mike who was absorbed in the extra inning of the Brewer's game (Go Brewer's!) and could not have cared less at that moment about me being busted as the tooth fairy.

So I went into the bedroom and started crying. Why, you may ask. I think it has a little something to do with today being Bob and my 15th wedding anniversary and a little something to do with the sainted dead spouse syndrome. Of course, if Bob were here he would have stopped whatever he was doing and given me his undivided attention and laughed appropriately and sentimentally at my tooth fairy story. Better yet, if Bob were here, he would have crept around the room with me and seen Henry's head bob up for himself and we could have laughed together later.

I am sure that is what would have happened. If Bob were here he would celebrate every silly milestone involving our boys with me in exactly the way I would want him to.

It all would be perfect, if Bob were here.

HA, beautiful dreamer.

Well, if Bob were here, we would have celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary today. Instead, I am packing for a trip to San Diego where Mike and I will speak about the challenges and joys of marriage after widowhood. We talk about the sainted dead spouse syndrome and the anniversary dates that can be tough for both of us. I bet the tooth fairy story will be brought up this year. I bet we laugh about it.

Nothing is perfect, except maybe the weather today which is the exact same weather we had 15 years ago.

Happy Anniversary, Bob. I miss you! Love, Renie

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Invincible

2011-08-03T09:00:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

Can grief be sexy?

Let me explain. The other day I attended a fundraiser for the FaceIt Foundation (www.faceitFoundation.org). My friend, Mark, founded this organization to help raise awareness and provide support for male depression. He has been riding his bike from California to New York this summer to raise funds and awareness for this worthy cause.

The event was lovely, but could have had a better turn out.

I feel the same way about Camp Widow (www.sslf.org) where Mike and I will speak next week on the joys and challenges of remarriage after widowhood. I also feel the same way about the Life Lights Celebration, an annual event that benefits the Horizon Grief Resource Center. (www.horizonhch.org) Mike and I serve on the planning committee for this last event.

Mark (FaceIt Foundation) and I have discussed the difficulties of garnering support for our passions: depression and grief.

"They aren't very sexy topics," Mark said, with a laugh and a shrug.

I think grief is sexy. What is not sexy about crying and screaming and possible throwing of items? You can't tell me heartbreak is not sexy. Funerals?, now there is some sexy stuff; people dressed in dark outfits, milling about and talking in hushed tones, that is sexy. And what about grief support groups?, the Kleenex, more crying, the great chairs you get to sit in, sexy. The thank you notes, the flowers, the head tilt of empathy, the paperwork, the holidays, the anniversaries, the hard (like climbing a mountain of sand) work involved with moving forward, all of it very, very sexy.

For real, though, I think grief can be sexy.

The way child birth is sexy. It's messy and there can be screaming and crying and maybe drugs and you have no idea when it will end. There can be a point (or two or three or 18) when you might think you don't want to go on, or you can't go on, but you have no choice at that moment.

You have no choice.

You know that feeling that you get at the top of the mountain or after you run a marathon (I hear) or after a fantastic bike ride or after you clean your entire house and it smells like lemon or when all the laundry is done and everything is folded in neat piles or after a successful presentation you were really nervous about or when you finally birth that baby. You know that tired, satisfied, glowing feeling you get after a hard job well done, when it feels so good to be in your skin and you are so proud of your accomplishment. It may be a feat you didn't expect to complete, or didn't necessarily even want to, but you did and you have to smile despite yourself because you feel just a little invincible.

Surviving grief can make you feel like that.

Invincible!

Don't give up on your grieving before you get to the glowing, satisfied, sexy, feeling good in your skin, invincible part.

Getting your glow back.........that is sexy!!!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Newsflash

2011-07-29T10:42:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

To me Henry (11) is all Wellenstein and Arthur (7) is the McGoldrick. People say they look exactly alike but I know differently.

Henry looks just like his dad, has a lot of the same interests, and has the reserved observant nature of his father.

Arthur looks like my brother and is more lighthearted and social. The way he greets people and handles himself in a crowd reminds me of my dad.

I have often thought the two would make a good political team. Henry would be the speech writer and Arthur would be the one shaking people's hands. (not that I would wish a political career on either of them mind you)

Henry obviously had more time with his dad, and Bob took advantage of the time to introduce Henry to many of his passions, some of which included cooking, camping, science and bike riding. After Bob died I desperately wanted to keep these interests close to Henry's heart. But as any parent, widowed or not, has to realize, the child will have their own interests and you can't force yours onto them.

But, I will admit, that I continue to look for these "Bob Wellenstein" traits in Henry. It still makes me smile when Henry wants to make Bob's famous pancakes or when he excels in science at school. So it took me by surprise when Arthur began expressing interest in the kitchen.

"Mom, what can I do to help with dinner?"

Wait a minute.......I've been spending so much time looking for the Wellenstein in Henry that I may be missing it in Arthur. He's not ALL McGoldrick, clearly. Neither is Henry ALL Wellenstein.

As a matter of fact, a friend recently made a comment about Arthur's social nature; "I wonder where he gets that from?" She then motioned her head towards Mike. Does this mean they are part Hogan as well?

Newsflash......both of them are their own person.

I know we all want to see bits of ourselves in our children. With Bob being dead I have searched for these bits even closer. Am I hoping to keep him alive through the boys? Am I wanting to prove that Bob was, indeed, alive, and not just a figment of my imagination?

I don't know.

What I do know is that we are all bits and pieces of everyone who has influenced us in our lives, alive and dead.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

More Acceptance

2011-07-11T09:36:00.000-05:00

Hey there,

Arthur (7) and I were walking to our friend's house down the block when he asked me about the presenting I do about Grief and Loss. He was curious what kind of questions people ask me after I am done with the talk. I told him most people are curious about my marriage to Mike and how I decided I was ready to date again and how my children (he and Henry) accepted Mike in their lives.

"How DID we accept Mike?" he asked, squinting up at me in the sunlight.

"Well, you two were so young when you met Mike (2 & 5) that I don't think you thought one way or the other about it, it just was," I told him.

"And then when we got older we thought......Mike, OK, we accept you!"

He looked up the hill for any cars, smiled at me, grabbed my hand and started to cross the street.

Yup Arthur, that is how it happened.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Humor

2011-07-06T16:14:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

The other day I spoke at a Death & Dying class at the local university. I have been doing this every semester for a few years now. I come in after the class, full of social work, counseling and nursing students, discusses the topic of grieving. I tell them my personal grief story. My story usually ends up being a bit of a free association, rambling kind of routine, and there is a lot of laughter.

I am not sure if the laughter shocks any of the students. I certainly hope it does not offend any of them. I don't want to seem too irreverent. (not too anyway)

I know grief isn't funny, grief is hard work.

I tell them that too.

For the presentation, in an attempt to keep myself somewhat focused, I try to tell stories that are examples of my favorite list of characteristics required for successful grieving.

Courage, Resilience, Perseverance, Patience, and a Sense of Humor. (found in the book, The Courage to Grieve).

My stories relating to these characteristics are meant to be examples of a person doing her best to move forward and figure out how to best put the pieces of her life back in some kind of order after it was shattered. They involve some yelling at innocent parties and some wise realizations from wide eyed children and some feelings of failure and some feelings of accomplishment and some tears and lots of laughter.

When your 4 year old approaches you at an airport inquiring about the "green square thing at the bottom of the urinal", or you finally realize, after months of doing it, that the family cannot live on instant oatmeal alone, or you cry in joy over a little thing like a state park sticker, or you find yourself in a conversation with a hawk and it seems like a perfectly rational thing to do, one must laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Grief is hard work and it is sad and it is ridiculous at times and you find yourself in outrageous situations and it helps to see the humor in it all.

As a good friend of mine says; Sometimes you gotta laugh.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

My Tree

2011-06-23T12:00:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

Father's Day, 2011.

Mike wanted to go on a bike ride before we grilled some fish on his new grill for dinner. I should say before HE grilled fish on his new grill for dinner. I thought a bike ride, in between the rain drops, sounded like a fabulous idea.

I watched him take off down our street, concentrating on clipping in his biking shoe to the pedal of the slick Trek mountain bike he rides.

It was Bob's bike.

They are Mike's shoes, apparently Mike has smaller feet than Bob.

I started laughing, belly laughing.

One of my favorite funny memories of Bob is the first time we went out on our bikes after he got those clip on bike shoes and so lovingly replaced the pedals. We were riding through SE Portland on our way to Ben and Jerry's for a little sweet treat. If you have never been to SE Portland you won't know how congested the narrow neighborhood streets can get with parked cars and how many bicyclist can be cruising these narrow and uncontrolled intersections. Portland is a bicycling city.

Well, a bicyclist came from the perpendicular street and we had to stop short. Bob, unfamiliar with his clip on shoes was unable to remove his foot from the pedal and tipped right over. It was in slow motion. He just fell slowly over, his feet trapped on the bike, helpless to stop himself.

I laughed so hard seeing this normally coordinated, sporty guy topple over, still trying to extricate his foot from his pedal.

Nice, huh? I'm so loving. It was just so hilarious. And he wasn't hurt or anything.

It's interesting how life stacks together all of it's parts on top of each other into one big whole. Like the circles of a tree that show it's age. The years stack on top of each other, wrap around and on top of the years before, some are wider than others and some have little bumps, each have their own story, each is an important part of the whole tree.

My live husband can unwittingly and unknowingly bring up a memory of my dead husband and I can laugh over a memory of Bob while making a memory of Mike.

This is my tree.

I love my tree.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Beautiful Dreamer

2011-06-17T12:08:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

The other morning Henry came out of his bedroom and went to the cupboard in the kitchen looking for breakfast. His shoulders were bent forward and his head was hanging a bit and he didn't answer his usual "Good" when I asked him how he slept.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"I had a dream about Dad," he told me. Then he started sobbing, big shoulder shaking sobs.

Upon questioning he couldn't remember much of the dream.

"But I remember the emotion," he cried.

I attempted to comfort Henry by telling him my belief is that when you dream about the person who is dead it is the person visiting you, checking in, saying hi. So dreaming about Dad should be a happy thing. As I explained this theory to Henry I omitted the part that I never dream about Bob, never.

Last week Mike came downstairs one morning and told me he had a dream about Bob the night before.

Going with my theory, that is a little weird.

He said that Bob and I were together talking about the boys summer haircuts that Mike had given them and how much he liked them. Bob didn't say anything to Mike in the dream, no thanking him for helping to raise his boys or any encouraging words. Apparently Bob and I simply hung out on the back porch and watched the boys and their short hair run around for a while.

Rude. I thought to myself, but maybe I'm just bitter that Bob seems to be visiting everyone else in their dreams but me.

"He seemed very happy with the hair cuts, I think the fact that he's happy with what we're doing was implied," Mike said.

Very generous of Mike I think.

Well, if Bob visits anyone else out there in their dreams be sure and send him my way. I wouldn't mind if he came by and said HI.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

A House of Cards

2011-06-11T20:57:00.003-05:00

Hey there,

Henry (10) had his first "health" class in school last week.

He came home chock full of information about adolescence.

"Mom," he asked me, slurping up his ramen noodles with a fork, "when did you start adolescence?"

"Excuse me?" I stalled, just exactly what was he looking for?

"What about Dad, when did he start adolescence."

Now there is a question I never thought to ask Bob before he died.

Henry went on to explain that when he was in adolescence he might be happy one minute and angry the next, his friends would be more important to him than his family (what!?!?), his motivation could be lacking, and he might have trouble focusing.

Hmmmmmmm........I think I am in adolescence NOW........

"When I learned about this stuff in school my teacher called it puberty, only he pronounced it pooooberty," I told him, still stalling a little, not sure why.

I have no idea what made me tell a 10 year old boy a story involving poo since five minutes later I saw him dancing in the dining room building a house of cards singing "pooooberty.....pooooooooberty".

Today the boys and Mike were leaving to go camping. I told my boys to be helpful.

"Mike has three healthy young men with him and he better not do all the work himself. Be focused," I encouraged pumping my arms in the air.

"OK, Mom," Henry said, eyes trained on his house of cards, "unless I enter pooooberty, and then I might not be very motivated or focused."

Damn school.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Dead End

2011-06-08T11:51:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

What is the statute of limitations on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)?

I have been having some health issues lately that have required Dr's. visits and tests and scary possibilities and waiting for results.

Last week I sat in the Dr's. office and listened while the very nice doctor lady told me she was sure everything was fine.

"No worries," she told me. "I just want to be thorough, I am sure we are leading to a dead end. You look healthy and your lung capacity is better than mine, I am sure you are fine."

This very nice, very thorough, youngish, kind of spunky lady had no idea why I sat in front of her with tears streaming down my face.

"That's what the very nice doctors told my husband too, and now he's dead," I told her.

"Oh dear, how long ago did your husband die?" she asked, with the familiar head tilt.

"Seven years."

SO NOT THE POINT!!!

I know she was expecting me to say six months or possibly last week by the way I was reacting. I know it seems crazy to be sitting in an office seven years after your husband died, remarried, and by most accounts happy and mostly sane, and be freaking out about a non-life threatening diagnosis and some test results for a possibility that will "most likely lead to a dead end".

I know this logically.

But apparently my body has not caught up with my mind on this one. Apparently, I am unable to sit calmly in a Dr's. office and listen to a very nice lady tell me that she is sure I am fine while she busily orders complicated tests to rule out scary sounding possibilities. Apparently I did not learn the first time not to ask too may questions and to NEVER EVER Google the scary possibility that your very nice Dr. is sure you don't have but insists on testing you for anyway, just to be thorough.

Apparently, I have a little PTSD.

Yes, seven years later.

Oh my.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Mace Pese

2011-05-31T13:00:00.008-05:00

Hey there-

I was seven weeks pregnant with Arthur (now 7) when Bob was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I was eight months pregnant when we were in Omaha, NE for Bob's stem cell transplant. Arthur was just shy of five months when Bob died.

Needless to say, there were many moments of wondering.

Why am I pregnant right now? Is this really a good idea? Do I really need this right now? How can I handle two kids on my own? Is it OK to have a donut and Dr. Pepper when I am pregnant, because I am really stressed out right now! What were we thinking?!?!?!?!

Arthur came home the other day from school with an art project clutched in his fist. The assignment was to write something they could do.

I will mace
pese to the warld.

Arthur

Translation......I will make peace to the world. (I know, I know, we have some work to do on his spelling)

Well, I guess that answers all my questions, except for that donut and Dr. Pepper one.......

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Resilience

2011-05-17T14:06:00.007-05:00

Hey there-

We got new carpet installed yesterday.

Sunday was spent moving furniture, ripping up carpeting, pulling up staples and painting. The whole project started with a bathroom remodel. You know how these things go, first the bathroom gets fixed up and then before you know it you're ripping up carpeting and taking the pictures off the wall so you can paint the living room.

Arthur (the 7 year old) has been loving all of it. From the demolition of the tile to the hanging of the new toilet paper roll, he's wanted in on all of it. You might think we were the only people ever to remodel a bathroom. Arthur would move his bed in there if he could. And just what was Henry doing while Arthur and I were on our hands and knees yanking out hundreds of staples from the floor? Henry was curled up on the love seat in the sun room amongst all the displaced furniture reading Harry Potter.

They are very different kids.

Later that night Arthur was just out of the shower, his skin all pink and glowing and his hair a big tangle. He sat down on the couch next to Henry and me so I could gently comb out his hair. As I slowly worked out the knots (both boys are growing their hair out for 'crazy hair day') I realized I had never combed Henry's hair like this, Henry has always been too busy taking care of his own personal hygiene to wait around for me.

Then, while getting into his jammies Arthur animatedly told me a story involving some bison (NOT buffalo!). Bison have been his obsession since our trip to Yellowstone last summer. The boy has at least 25 pictures of bison hanging on the walls surrounding his bed, compared to the maps and dry erase board with daily reminders such as "make pancakes in morning" next to Henry's bed.

The point of all this?

The point is that while I watched Arthur strut around the room brushing his hair back from his face with one hand and wildly waving the other around during his very involved bison story I was struck by something, something seemingly obvious, but still a bit shocking to me.

Arthur is becoming his own man.

Somewhere amongst the backdrop of his dad dying and his mom falling apart and his older brother demanding lots of attention and his mom getting married again and older step-siblings coming and going, Arthur is becoming this individual, this person, this man-child with his own voice and opinions and interests.

Despite everything he's growing up, thriving.

"Kids are resilient," a friend told me at Bob's memorial.

Considering there was a time that poor boy practically needed to be bleeding out his eyeballs to get any attention from me, resilience is a good thing.

A quick thesaurus search for the word "resilience" finds these synonyms.....flexibility, pliability, spirit.

That's Arthur.

Thank goodness for resilience.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Expectations

2011-05-09T09:00:00.003-05:00

Hey there,

I opened the refrigerator the other day and one of the many magnets I have with pictures or quotes or lists or instructions came crashing to the ground.

It was the 8X11 one that holds the list of Expectations for the household. You know, the list that includes making your bed every day before sitting in front of a square box, clearing your dirty dishes from the table, and no rough housing on the main floor of the house, just to name a few. (there are only 10 in case you are wondering just how nutty I am) It's a list that is sometimes adhered to and sometimes not depending on the day, the child, and how much I feel like nagging. (I mean gently reminding :-))

When the frame fell to the floor the Expectations list fell out and revealed the list that had been in the frame prior.

Courage
Patience
Resilience
Perseverance
Capacity to Distance
Sense of Humor

From now on I want to.........

Ah, a very different list from a very different time. I used to have this list posted on every mirror of the house along with the refrigerator. It was a list I found in the book The Courage to Grieve. According to the author, Judy Tatelbaum, these are qualities a person needs to successfully grieve. The last line is a mantra for yourself, a little reminder that you are moving forward. What was is no longer, what do you want to do NOW.

My first thought when I saw the list was how glad I was to not be back there, back in that place when I needed that list every day to remind me of how hard I was working, how far I had come, and that I was, indeed, no matter how slowly and painfully at times, moving forward.

Then I began to realize how appropriate that list was for right now. I need all these skills to successfully parent, step-parent, run a household, write with honesty, present with passion, be a good friend, be a good partner, etc.......

Heck, we all need these skills to make it through the day.

Maybe it is time to think less about expectations and think more about the qualities I want to teach my children. Skills they will need to be a successful adult, able to handle life's disappointments with grace and guts.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Daffodil

2011-05-02T09:00:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

I was on a walk with my mother-in-law recently, it was a brisk, grey, early spring day. We had a dusting of snow the night before but there were still the first flowers of spring to be observed as we slowly made our way down the block. I pointed out the daffodils in the neighbor's yards as they bravely continued their final blooming despite the snows attempt to weigh them down.

Daffodils have always been a favorite of mine. The first burst of spring after the long winter. Their bold mustard yellow bloom and perky slim stem is so encouraging, almost brash, as if the daffodil is natures way of giving the old middle finger to winter.

I was reminded of a quote I found meaningful when I was in the depths of grief. You know those depths, when you are afraid you just might not make it out.

Spring does no refuse to come
because it is preceded by winter.

Judy Tatelbaum
The Courage to Grieve

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Trapped in Humanity

2011-04-25T08:59:00.006-05:00

Hey there-

Henry, Arthur and I decided it was a good thing we aren't lions.

We went to see the movie "African Cats" yesterday. The story follows a cheetah mother and her cubs and a lion pride during a year in their life on the African plains of Kenya.

Note to reader, there could be some spoiler information coming up.

Cheetahs are solitary animals so the mom was on her own raising her cubs while lions are more family oriented and had several women, lots of cubs, and one man protecting them. I won't get into the discussions that followed the movie about how bothersome it was that the females hunted and killed the game and then the man came along, roared at them to get out of the way, and proceeded to lay down and eat his fill. Never mind that the ladies are caring for all the little ones AND they made the meal, I guess the guy eats first no matter what in lion world. Plus, just exactly where was the cheetah dad, huh?

Mike kept telling us we had to take human emotion out of the equation.

At the end another male lion and his three sons drive the dad lion out of his pride, kick out all the cubs, and take over the women. The women hardly put up a fight before seemingly abandoning their current cubs and happily begin to raise new cubs with the new leader dude.

The boys and I agreed we are glad that we aren't lions and Mike didn't force me to abandon them before I took up with him and began raising his kids.

I know, I know, separate human emotion.

After Bob died people had lots to say to me, words of comfort they were supposed to be I am sure. Statements about how I should be happy that he was no longer in pain, or that he was in a better place. I was told that this was the plan we had agreed to so why should I be sad?

But I was sad, very. Did this fact mean I wanted him to still be in pain? It certainly meant that I thought we had agreed to a stupid plan. My sister-in-law told me some words that I actually did find comfort in, she said no matter how glad I might be that Bob was out of pain I was still going to miss him because I was trapped in my own humanity.

We can't separate from our human emotions.

Do we even want to?

Still, Henry decided that given the choice he would be a cheetah, better to be on your own than have to deal with all the drama and emotion and abandonment of the pride.

Hmmmmmmmm......

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Tiny Spot

2011-04-18T19:35:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

On Saturday I was sitting on the floor of the dingy hallway at the high school waiting for my boys to come out of the locker room after their swim lessons. As luck would have it a fellow widow friend was also waiting for her son and we were enjoying ourselves gossiping, eavesdropping on the pom pon girls as they flitted up and down the hallway preparing for their tryouts, and being entertained by her almost four year old.

When my boys emerged into the hallway with their wet heads and red eyes I introduced them to my friend's son, who at this point was lying on his side and spinning in a slow circle on the floor. He stopped spinning, looked at my boys and said;

"My daddy is dead."

I thought this was interesting since he had no reason to connect my boys with their dad being dead like his, and it's not as if his dad just died, it has been a few years. I told him I was sorry and that my boys' father was dead also, then we said our goodbyes and the three of us meandered down the hallway and out to our car, the promised donuts on our minds.

Later that same day, in the middle of a crowded and loud restaurant, Henry brought this interaction up and told me he didn't think "the boy really knew that his dad was dead, as in never coming back."

"Why not?" I asked him.

Henry explained to me that the boy looked about the same age he had been when his dad died and that he hadn't understood what it meant "back then" when Bob died.

"I thought he was coming back," Henry said evenly.

I have to admit this statement surprised me.

I know he was only 3 1/2 at the time but he seemed so on board with everything, as if he really got IT.

"Do you think that now?" I asked him with more than a little trepidation.

"Not really, kind of, like 92% I know that he's not coming back but 8% of me thinks that he's still alive."

Oh dear...................

"It's like when Dad first died there was this tiny spot in me that understood the truth," he says this cupping his hands in a tiny circle near his heart and hunching his shoulders and head forward, "and slowly the spot grew and grew and grew until there was only a tiny spot left that still thinks he's alive somewhere." When he described this last part his voice became quite theatrical and he lifted his head up, brought back his shoulders and threw his arms up in the universal sign for victory.

I was jealous of Henry's description of his tiny spot, which sounded more pleasant than my tiny spot. What I felt was more of an enormous dark stain that covered me in darkness with an occasional tiny spot of light fighting its way through. Then my tiny spot grew and grew too, until eventually I was mostly in the light with only occasional darkness.

What's interesting to me is that in the beginning Henry's tiny spot seemed to be the dark part and my tiny spot was the light part. But Henry's spot did not appear to get darker as it grew, not the way he described it anyway. Both of our tiny spots brought us into the light as they grew, each in our own way.

Henry's little body and emotions could only take on the enormity of what had happened to him in little bits, a tiny spot. I love the image of Henry opening up as his tiny spot of understanding grows, not shutting down with the weight of the truth but being lightened by it.

I also love that he still reserves a tiny spot where Bob still lives within him.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Tent Sale Anyone?

2011-04-07T11:53:00.005-05:00

Hey there,

The other day Henry asked me why garage sales weren't always held in people's garages. (they actually call them "rummage sales" here in Milwaukee but where I grew up they were called "garage sales" and I guess I have passed the phrase on to my children)

This question brought to mind the day Bob and I went to a tent sale.

We were looking for a tent.

For real.

Bob was always one for finding a deal and we were looking for a tent so when he read about a tent sale in the paper we headed out to the address in the ad. We arrived at a big field with a very large striped awning thing with tables set up under it displaying different products. We shrugged our shoulders, steeled ourselves against the wet wind, got out of the car, and began to meander around to the different tables looking for the tents.

I kid you not.

After looking at all the products and finding no tents (or anything related to a tent for that matter) we were confused. Bob walked boldly up to a very tall man who looked like he might be in charge of something, because his striped shirt matched the stripes on the awning, and asked him where we might find a tent.

Seriously, this is not a joke.

The man looked at us quizzically, as if he weren't sure if we might harm him, and slowly raised his right hand and pointed towards the sky, or the awning, or the TENT.

Yup, we were at a "tent sale" alright, everything for sale was under a tent.

We laughed so hard on the way home from that "tent sale" I am not sure how we stayed on the road. That memory entertained us on many a long car trip. One of us would only have to look at the other and say;

"Hey, I think I just saw a sign for a tent sale, you want to go check it out? We could really use a new tent......" and the two of us would be set off into peels of laughter.

So when Henry asked about the "garage sale" that isn't really in a garage I told him the story of his dad and me and our "tent sale" extravaganza.

And the two of us laughed so hard thinking about Bob and me standing under that big tent asking that tall man where we might find a tent that other members of the family had to come out of their rooms to see what was going on.

When Bob first died I dreaded the day that I would be able to talk about him without crying, as if he were just a guy I once knew.

But man did it feel good to laugh, belly laugh, with Henry about that darn tent sale and how silly (stupid?) his dad and I were sometimes.

I thought I would never be able to say the words "tent sale" to anyone ever again and see their face break into that knowing smile of an inside joke. Maybe the next time we are on a road trip I will ask Henry if he wants to go to a tent sale with me.......

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Age of Reason

2011-03-29T14:44:00.008-05:00

Hey there-

I blame it on my dad.

He was the one who would announce above the cacophony of the dinner table;

"Do you know what today is? Today is the 20th anniversary of your mother and my second date."

Of course, there is a story about why their second date was more important to remember than their first, but that is not the point of this blog.

My point is that anniversaries are important to me. Not wedding anniversaries or birthdays necessarily, but random dates when you know your life has changed forever. Dates like a first date, or the first time you met someone, or a first kiss.

Or the day your husband died. OK, not quite as romantic as a first (or second) date anniversary, but a day I will never forget all the same.

The day Bob died, March 29th. A day my life changed forever.

Initially I noticed every 29th of the month. I could tell you exactly how many months and weeks he had been gone, similar to a new parent counting the weeks and months of their infant.

It has been seven years now.

Seven years.

That is a lot of months.

Seven is the "age of reason" according to my dad. I'm not sure I am any more reasonable about Bob's death than I was in the beginning. I am grateful for the time I had with him, but I still think I was cheated. I am glad he "gave" me the boys, but I still think they should have had more time with him. Most days I couldn't tell you how many months he has been gone, but I know the years, I know the date.

The first year I plotted and planned all year for this date. This year it snuck up on me. I was feeling edgy and weepy and discontent. I was easily annoyed (OK, even MORE easily annoyed). And I wasn't sure why.

Ah yes, it's March, that's right.

Bob was diagnosed in March, he died in March. March is long and dreary here in the Midwest, still winter, still brown and cold. I guess I just don't like March.

But it has been seven years. The age of reason.

"Why does it feel like he just died last week?" I ask my friend over lunch, my voice cracks and tears spring to my eyes. "It has been seven years, seven years."

"Grief isn't linear," she tells me.

Neither is it reasonable.

OK, I'm off for my second chai now..........

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Do Over

2011-03-21T16:34:00.010-05:00

Hey there-

Last week I had the pleasure of attending an all district strings concert in which Henry, the 10 year old, played the cello.

It was an amazing night.

Not because of the music.

The music was fine but, to be honest, I was bored out of my mind half way through. Plus, my back hurt from sitting on the plastic bleachers too long and I thought I might pass out from the heat at one point. (1000 children and their significant others are too many people for a smallish stuffy gymnasium)

The amazing part of the night was looking out from the audience and seeing two of the girls that Henry was in play group with out there with their string instruments and their white tops and black pants and their hair done up with pretty barrettes. I watched all three of them as they intently read their music and moved their bows over the strings and waited semi-patiently, fanning themselves with their sheet music, as the other classes finished their songs. As I watched them I recalled our play groups that began before the children could sit up on their own. I remembered the wooden puzzle pieces and blocks that were strewn about the house after everyone left. I remembered the banana bread I liked to make when the group came to my house and the camaraderie I felt with all the other new parents.

At some point during the concert evening I saw the two dads of these two girls notice each other, I watched as they slapped each other on the back in a "guy hug" and chatted for a while, periodically looking out towards their girls and nodding their heads and smiling. The scene brought to mind the earnest discussions we parents had during those play groups regarding sleep habits and eating habits and disciplinary habits.

I was enjoying this concert moment and the awe and wonder I was feeling regarding our 10 year old musician children and the two dad's bonding over them. I wondered how we could have gotten to this place, this concert, so fast. Weren't we just at some one's house debating the merits of attachment parenting and wondering at what week would they begin to sleep through the night?

As much as I was enjoying the moment I have to admit my old familiar question reared its ugly head, creeping into my consciousness.

Why wasn't Bob down there with the other dads, slapping them on the back? Why don't I get to see his proud face light up a little bit when he looks out across the crowd and catches a glimpse of Henry?

A lot has happened since those early days of the play group: divorce, illness, death, financial struggles, career ups and downs, more babies, no more babies, moves, second marriages.

If we knew then what we know now......

I want a do over.

Some of those earnest discussions we had back then seem rather silly to me now.

I want to go back to those play group days and I want to worry less about things like sleep habits. I would give up a lot of sleep to be able to see Bob walking and rocking a fussy newborn Henry in the middle of the night, with the light from the moon framing the both of them, just one more time.

A line from the Peter Himmelman song "Kneel Down" runs through my mind;

"Erase all trace of apprehension,
there is time enough to have no time at all."

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Relief?

2011-02-25T14:47:00.004-06:00

Hey there-

I have noticed something interesting lately.

I will give you an example.

Yesterday I met a woman. We began talking and the subject of my book came up. Since I am still working on my "elevator speech" I proceeded with my usual babble about being widowed and living beyond grief, yadda, yadda, yadda.....(doesn't that just make one want to run out and buy the book!??!....help!) Anyway, once the word widow came out of my mouth the familiar head tilt happened. You all know the one I'm talking about. The head tilt that comes with the furrowed brow and is usually accompanied by some sort of sympathetic utterance such as "oh my", or "oh dear".

This particular conversation continued and like so many other times before the subject of my second marriage came up. Once the remarriage statement came out of my mouth the head that had remained tilted straightened, the brow relaxed it's concerned wrinkled look, the eyes lit up, the woman smiled, and said with a sigh of relief; "Oh, that's so great. I'm so happy for you."

I am not picking on this particular lady, who was a very nice and grounded person and I would love it if our paths crossed again. I have had countless conversations that have gone this same way, and I find it interesting, the visible signs of relief I witness when the person hears I am married again. As if the two minutes it took to get from the grief of the young widow thing to the joy of the married again thing was almost unbearable for them.

Why are these people so relieved to find I am remarried? It's interesting. Is the relief for me or for themselves? I don't feel much relief being remarried so it must be for themselves. Is it simply easier to talk about marriage than grief with a stranger? Do they assume that because I am married I am happy again,no longer grieving, I am "over it", I have moved on?

Well, I am married again, and I am mostly happy, but I am not done grieving, nor have I moved on. I have moved forward, accepted the hand I was dealt, and tried to play it as best as I can. But at the end of the day, Bob is gone, which I am sad about, and Mike is here, which I am happy about. Not much relief in that, really, but it is interesting.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Letters

2011-02-08T10:19:00.005-06:00

Hey there,

I was at the Aunts the other morning picking the boys up from their overnight stay. I watched the two of them play in the deep snow out back from the upstairs kitchen window. They looked like two colorful moles darting in and out of their holes as they worked on their tunnels with their garden spades and threw snow at each other (and a few spades as well..scary!).

For reasons too complicated and boring to explain a letter Bob wrote to his dad when we were living in Portland and he had suffered from a stroke was found and given to me. I took it home to read.

The letter made me laugh. It was so Bob. He started out telling his dad about a new mattress the two of us had just purchased. He told his dad that the futon we had been sleeping on had worn out and that we needed a new mattress. What he didn't tell his dad was that I had been wanting a mattress for a long time and Bob had resisted and resisted getting rid of that futon. It finally came to me threatening to sleep on the pull out couch before Bob finally agreed to the purchase. "Undoubtably, the most comfortable thing I have ever slept on."

Bob went on with other mundane information about rearranging the living room which "Irene pretty much directed but I helped move stuff around." Bob then mentioned a hike we were planning on doing later that day and told his dad he wanted to go a little later in the day but "ever since we got lost that night at Bagby Springs Irene has lost her enthusiasm for evening hikes."

I laughed out loud at that one, remembering our experience at Bagby and how terrified I was when we were lost. We were really lost in the forest at night people, for real, just ask my friend Margaret who is still alive to tell the tale. But that is a story for another time.

Anyway, Bob finally got around to the point of the letter which was to tell his dad how much he meant to him and how scared he was at the thought of losing him. Of course, in Bob fashion, he tried not to get "too mushy" about it.

"I just want to thank you for being the greatest person I've known in my life, at least personally. If I would have known Albert Einstein personally he probably would have been a very close second (Don't let Mom see this)."

I was laughing so hard at this point that Henry asked me what was so funny and I read parts of the letter out loud to him. Henry is currently obsessed with Einstein and he laughed out loud at that part as well, which doesn't happen often, he is his father's son after all.

What a gift that letter was, not only to Bob's dad at the time but to me and Henry now. The letter got me thinking about emails and blogs and Facebook and how few letters are written these days. You know, letters, actual pen to paper letters. There is so much communicating going on but how much of it will be able to be read to the next generation.

This letter of Bob's that is sitting next to me as I type this blog is in his penmanship and on legal paper and just the sight of it brings Bob to life. Reading his goofy stories about every day stuff going on and seeing his signature "g" floods me with memories of our life in Portland and Bob sitting with a steaming latte next to him and writing a letter to his dad.

Thanks writing letters, Bob, I will treasure them always.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Dentist

2011-01-28T16:48:00.004-06:00

Hey there,

Funny story.

I brought my mother-in-law (Bob's mom)to the dentist recently. She has some complications going on with her teeth and gums and dentures. I will spare you all the details of what is going on and suffice it to say we are trying to keep her from needing a full set of dentures and that isn't always easy when a person is 87 years old. (brush and floss people, brush and floss)

Anyway, following the appointment the dentist was very kindly and patiently giving me the information about what we should be doing to care for her gums and current partials and what we should do if there is a problem.

I must have given the dentist some kind of look like this was too much information for me because she stopped suddenly and said;

"Maybe your husband could call me with any questions or concerns."

At which point I continued my blank stare and thought to myself;

"Why in the world would Mike call you about Bob's mom's teeth?"

At which point the very nice dentist must have decided I was either daffy or just plain stupid since she felt the need to clarify; "You know, her son, have her son give me a call."

Ah, I now understood the confusion.

"Yes, I will," I said, smiling, almost laughing, because what I really wanted to say was; "Listen lady, if you hear from her son you let me know because I have some things I need to say to him!"

Sometimes my worlds have collided so seamlessly that I don't even know who people are talking about when they say the word "husband". Current, late, Bob, Mike, live, dead, first, second, it's all the same to me apparently.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Daddy First

2011-01-14T09:22:00.003-06:00

Hey there-

I was making Arthur's bed yesterday when he suddenly skipped into the room.

"Mom, if I could I would want to talk to Martin Luther King Jr., Einstein, and Daddy," he said breathlessly.

"Wow, that would be cool," I said from the top of the bunk bed. I was thinking what good company Bob was keeping and how thrilled he must be to be grouped with Einstein, his hero.

"Well, I would want to see Daddy first actually, yea, Daddy first."

Then Arthur scurried back out of the room on his tip toes.

Smart boy.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Necklaces

2011-01-11T10:07:00.004-06:00

Hey there,

Last night I was trimming Arthur's fingernails before he went to bed. I sat on the toilet with the garbage can between my knees and he stood to the side of me with his little hand outstretched. We were in Mike and my bathroom since we couldn't find a pair of clippers in the kid's bathroom. (shocking, I know)

Next to the toilet, hanging on the wall is some kind of contraption I bought when Bob and I lived in Portland that holds all my jewelry. The earrings nest in individual indentations and the necklaces and bracelets hang from little posts at the bottom. Arthur gazed at the necklaces while I trimmed up his nails and babbled about my memories of my dad (his grandpa) trimming my nails on Saturday nights before church the next morning and how he would sit on the toilet, just like I was right now, with the garbage can between his knees to catch the fallen nails.

Arthur asked if he could wear one of the necklaces and I said "no", explaining the necklace had been my grandmother's and it had been a gift from my grandfather to her and after she died I got it and I wore it at Mike and my wedding. He wanted to know which necklace I wore for "his daddy's wedding" so I carefully removed the fresh water pearl necklace that my dad brought all of us girls home after one of his business trips to Japan so Arthur could look at it. Then Arthur asked me about the necklace I had made from Bob and my wedding rings, so we talked about that for a moment. Then he asked about a locket I have that a friend's mom gave me when I graduated from college.

Arthur began to rank the items in order of importance.

While he did this ranking and confirming with me which ones he could wear and which ones he couldn't he suddenly said; "When I have children they won't ever meet my daddy."

"No, they won't, unfortunately," I agreed.

"So, they won't have a grandpa like I have a grandpa."

"Well, they'll have Mike, and he will be their grandpa," I explained.

"Will I tell them that he's their step-grandpa?" he wondered.

"You can explain whatever you want to them, but this is a long time away, we don't have to figure out what your children will call Mike tonight."

"But my children will call you grandma, like I call my grandma, grandma, right?"

"Right."

"Will my children call my grandpa grandpa when he sees them, just like I do?"

Up to this point I was enjoying the conversation, thinking it was cute and funny and fascinating, but now I began to get a little melancholy. It's doubtful that Arthur's grandpa will ever meet Arthur's children.

Shit, more death to come, more grieving for myself and my children. Man, can't we get a pass on this one? Haven't we dealt with enough already? Can't everyone just live forever?

Well, as "they" say; grief is the price you pay for love. And right now Arthur isn't focused on his losses or his potential grief, he seems to be enjoying all the love he has surrounding him and how he might explain it all to his future children one day.

More power to you Arthur, live in the moment.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Picture Thing

2011-01-04T14:45:00.006-06:00

Hey there-

I'm a bit on the sentimental side.

I like pictures and I save letters and ticket stubs from "important" concerts and shows and I collect little items from trips that I place around the house so they can collect dust.

When Bob first died my sentimentality increased exponentially and I became obsessed with keeping two of everything "for the boys".

Two bikes, two of his favorite recipes I framed, two quilts were made from his T-shirts......you get the idea.

As time has gone on some items that were deemed important have lost their importance, or I have completely forgotten what I thought was important about the item to begin with. I.e a certain canister of oatmeal, or a couch.

But the pictures remain around the house.

It's the pictures that can really trip people up when trying to understand our "situation" and how Mike "deals with the sainted dead spouse thing".

Now, I have been around many widow/ers and the picture thing is dealt with in as many different ways as there are for a person to die. Anywhere from total removal to continued prominent placing on a main wall seems to be the norm.

For Mike and I the picture issue came up rather quickly in our relationship. I know many of you know the story of Mike's struggle with the pictures and his wondering where he fit into my life. Then there was my "supportive" response that three months into our relationship was a little soon to be expecting lots of pictures around the house, ten years into it maybe, but not three months.

"You have to earn your spot on the wall buddy," I believe was my thoughtful response.

True to my word, now five years in, there are many more pictures of Mike and his children and us as a couple and family on various trips and doing various activities.

There are also many pictures of Bob, of Bob and I, and of Bob and the boys that remain hanging on the walls and tucked on shelves. (yes, we do have lots of pictures around the house. I said I liked pictures.)

And I have to say I don't get the problem people have with pictures of your dead spouse being around the house. I don't keep them above my bed, that might be a problem. No one seems to think it is weird that I have a picture of my dead grandmother displayed on the shelf, not a single person has ever commented on that fact being strange or wondered how Mike feels about that.

I guess it is the fact of the love relationship that confuses people. Mike certainly knows that I was married before, and that I loved Bob, it is no secret where the boys come from. Why should the past, their history, be hidden from them as if it were not valued?

I understand that one day the pictures of Mike will outnumber the pictures of Bob, if we are lucky enough that is. And if we aren't, and Mike were to exit before that happened, I would keep the pictures I do have of him up and expect that my next husband would understand just as Mike has.

Understand that I was loved, it's not a bad thing.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Milestones

2010-12-15T11:15:00.003-06:00

Hey there-

Henry and Arthur learned how to tie a tie last night. (Well, Henry actually learned and Arthur was instructed)

Another milestone. Another milestone without Bob.

I saw Bob wear a tie about two times in his life, so it's not as if this was a milestone that I had visions of him doing with our boys. Yet watching our neighbor stand in a line in between the two boys while Henry and Arthur carefully mimicked his hand motions, I felt a little melancholy.

Yes, this is the same neighbor who helped Henry fix up Bob's bike earlier this fall. We have awesome neighbors, and I know it takes a village and all, but it would be nice if Bob was part of the village in body and not just spirit.

Now I will take Bob's spirit with me and walk across the street and watch Henry in his carefully tied tie play the cello for the holiday concert.

This one's for you Bob.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Perspective

2010-12-09T11:48:00.004-06:00

Hey there-

Last night it was just me and my two boys for dinner.

In the middle of slurping up one long piece of spaghetti Henry began obsessing about making a mistake on the cello during the Christmas concert next week. Stating how horrible a mistake would be and how it would mess up EVERYONE in the whole orchestra.

Henry has a tendency to catastrophize his concerns. (word stolen from the mom on Modern Family. Meaning making a catastrophe out of small worries)

In an effort to calm his fears I asked him if a mistake would be the worst thing that could happen.

"Yes," he answered, very seriously. "It would be the worst thing that could happen."

"The worst thing that could happen, really? THE worst thing? You can't think of anything worse that might happen?" I continued valiantly.

"No."

Hmmmmm....I was hoping for some perspective. You know, he could break his leg or our house could burn down, or Mike could lose his job. There are so many worse things that could happen than making a mistake at your 4th grade Christmas concert.

When he brought up the concern of everyone watching him I even tried to burst his bubble and explain that no one would be watching him other than me and his Aunt Kathy because everyone else will be looking at their own child. So, no worries.

Didn't help, he was still freaking out.

Then Arthur chimed in; "You know, Henry, we have already had the worst thing happen to us." His eyes got all shiny when he said this and his brows crinkled up, he looked so sad.

Yes, here we go, some perspective coming from the 7 year old. Don't worry about messing up at your Christmas concert because the worst thing has already happened to us, Daddy died.

To Henry's blank stare Arthur responded; "Aunt Peg died......remember........"

Aunt Peggy (great Aunt Peggy to them) died a few weeks ago. While it was sad, I did not consider it the worst thing that could happen, she was in her 80s and all.

Not exactly the perspective I was hoping for.

Then I realized that Arthur knew Aunt Peggy better than he knew his dad.For Arthur Bob is more of a mythical person, as real to him as Santa Claus.

Now that is perspective I could have done without.

Makes me want to believe in Santa Claus.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Urn

2010-11-29T19:44:00.005-06:00

Hey there-

I love to dust the dining room. One would never know by the inch thick layer of dust found on the window sills and book shelves in this room, but I do. The shelves above the built in dresser behind the dining room table are my favorite to work on. These shelves are home to dozens of family pictures, my grandma's depression glass, a few framed poems, silver candle stick holders, and various other knick knacks collected from special people or special travels over time. I enjoy taking each item off the shelf and dusting it, thinking about the memory each one holds, before placing it back in its appointed place.

I am not very creative with the placement of these items. Everything goes back to approximately the same spot each time. I rarely change things up other than updating the 8x10 McHoganStein family photo annually.

These are the shelves that hold Bob's urn.

For the better part of six years the urn has held court in the center of the bottom shelf surrounded by a picture of Bob's family on one of their many camping trips, and a framed card that Bob gave me with the quote "The fabric of you is so familiar, it's as if we are woven of the same thread"....or something like that.

Yesterday I dusted the dining room after a visit from out of town friends made the dust too glaringly obvious to ignore another minute. Tonight the seven of us were eating dinner, consisting of a yummy Mexican spaghetti casserole and Pillsbury rolls. The usual dinner chaos was ensuing involving debates about cell phone usage and theories on relativity. Arthur (7) added his own lovely show that consisted of rolling on the living room rug and screaming for water because the spaghetti was too spicy.

As for myself, I was attempting to remain calm amidst the chaos with varying amounts of success. I sat breathing in and out and admired the nice clean shelves behind the bobbing blond head of a wound up Henry. Then I noticed that Bob's urn was no longer in the center of the shelf, it was in the back left corner surrounded by different photos than the usual.

Interesting. I have no conscious awareness of making that decision.

For someone who over thinks most things and actually kept a can of Irish oatmeal that Bob had bought in the kitchen cabinet for about five years before I would even let Mike look at the can let alone think about cooking the oatmeal I am rather amazed at the casualness of finding the urn in a less prominent spot on the shelf.

I don't know what it means exactly, but I'm thinking its gotta be good.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Layers

2010-11-09T09:40:00.003-06:00

Hey there,

"When I finished the book I felt envious of the experience you had gone through."

One of my readers said this to me.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..........

I get it.

It sounds a bit odd, maybe, but I totally get it.

That live in the moment, don't sweat the small stuff, seize the day mentality that comes with great loss.

The clarity.

Amidst the disorientation of grief I also found great purpose. I knew what my priorities were. I knew what was important.

I was peeled to the core.

Now, six years later, I find myself sweating the small stuff sometimes, my priorities seem less clear, I fret about issues that are not all that important in the grand scheme of things.

At times I am grateful that I have the luxury to worry about issues like the refrigerator sounding funny or if I signed up to bring napkins or cupcakes for the school party.

Other times I miss that intense buzzing feeling of LIVING I had following Bob's death, as if the world went from black and white to color. When I am around people who are closer to a loss I can feel the energy around them, I see the clarity in their eyes and hear it in their voice, and I am envious.

So I get it when my reader tells me she is envious of me and my experience with Bob's illness and death. Stripped of my layers back then I felt lighter and lean, but I also felt brittle and bit airy.

Now I have built up layers of living around my core. These layers make me feel a bit heavier, maybe thicker, slower, but also a bit more solid.

Layers of living. The key word being living.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

PS...for those who might not have seen the newspaper article I have enclosed the link below.

http://www.jsonline.com/news/milwaukee/106833508.html?referrer=facebook

Vision

2010-10-30T15:06:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

I had a vision.

Not a premonition, a vision.

I was making our bed earlier this afternoon. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon with bright sun filtering through the yellow and red leaves of the maple tree in our front yard. I glanced out the freshly washed windows (I kid you not, that was not just for dramatic affect, I had just washed the windows) and saw a most beautiful scene on my neighbors front yard. One of those moments that you wish you had a camera but you know that all you can do is take a snapshot of this vision in your mind and try to hold it there, just the way you are seeing it that moment.

I know it is corny but a Billy Joel song often roles in my head during these moments .....this is the time to remember because it will not last forever, these are the days to hold onto because we won't although we'll want to.......

Anyway......my vision.....

There was Henry, in a work apron, literally awash in reflected light from the droplets of water that were spraying out of the hose he held and, oh so carefully, aimed at the silver bike that was suspended in the air from our neighbor, Matt's, red bike stand. Matt stood behind Henry giving him guidance. Both of them seemed to have an air of reverence about them regarding the work they were doing on the bike.

The bike belonged to Bob when he was about Henry's age. The aunts (not to be read ants, as in red or black ones, but read awe, as in the aunts are awesome)grew tired of lugging the thing from one side to another in their garage (bikes were much heavier in the 70s!) and I saw it leaning against their garbage can the other day.

Henry and I were not ready for the bike to meet its demise.

So we saved the bike.

Henry pumped up the big fat tires and then Matt helped him tighten gears and handlebars and the rock hard seat and shine up the rusty chrome. Matt pointed out where the tire rim was dented.

"Your dad must of liked a little rough and tumble riding," he told Henry.

It was all so perfect.

A beautiful day, a shiny bike, a good neighbor, a proud son, fresh sheets.

It doesn't get any better than that.

I just had to share the vision, it was too good to keep to myself.

And who would appreciate this vision before me more than the aunts?

People tell me the greatest gift Bob left me was the boys.

And the boys are great.

But the greater gift Bob left me with might be his family. To have people to share the boys with who love them as much as I do, people who have known them since before they were born and love them unconditionally, that is a gift.

And what about neighbors who take your child and nurture an interest in them selflessly and with passion and care? That is a gift.

As I stood staring out the window and telling Aunt Kathy about this beautiful vision I was reminded of the renewed faith in community that I had during Bob's illness and following his death. I am pleasantly surprised to find out that six plus years later I still feel that way.

After Bob died I could not envision a ten year old Henry fixing up his dad's old bike on the neighbors front yard. I certainly could not envision watching a scene like that with a light heart, full of joy and appreciation for the moment.

My community has expanded in ways I could never have imagined six years ago. I have new neighbors, new friends, a new husband.

My community, old and new, my life, is so much more than I could have envisioned six years ago.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

One Woman Wedding

2010-10-24T21:59:00.015-05:00

Henry selling the books!

Mike's daughter Aubrey (in the middle) and two of her friends working the bar and pouring the chai!

The launch party was amazing! Thanks to the help and creativity and organization and assistance of my family and friends the evening was a huge success.

I will never have a night like that again.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Launch

2010-10-20T23:10:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

Well, tomorrow is the big launch party for my book, yea!

An event I have been anticipating for three years. Yes, three years.

My parents arrived yesterday and two of my sisters arrived today and we spent the day creating yellow and black center pieces for the tables. They look awesome! Thanks Kathy!

I am very excited and nervous and hope I can simply enjoy the moment.

Wish me luck.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Early Thanksgiving

2010-10-01T14:32:00.004-05:00

Hey there,

Thanksgiving has come a bit early for me this year.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, even as kid.

I love the tradition of gathering over a good meal and being thankful. No presents required.

As a child I had little concept of the work that went into the meal. The preparation and planning and cooking and organizing and timing. The effort it takes getting beautiful fresh food on a nicely set table with colorful gourds, sweet treats, rich wine, and lively conversation, all at the same time, with the hot dishes hot and the cold dishes cold, is an art, truly.

And then people sit down at the table and consume the meal in ten minutes.

Ouch.

I am experiencing a similar sensation now that my book is finally live. My family called all last weekend excited to tell me they had finished the book. Some had stayed up until the wee hours in the morning and some had read it in an afternoon, but all were done.

It took me three years to write and publish that book and folks were done in an afternoon?

Ouch.

I guess I am glad people are finding it a "page turner". It's not as if I thought it would take anyone three years to read..........

Thanksgiving is not all about the meal. It is about being grateful for your life, the good and the bad. Thanksgiving is about living mindfully, being appreciative of what is around you. Even if the meal ends in ten minutes, a person can hold on to the good intentions of thanksgiving all year long.

I hope the same for the book. People might read it in an afternoon, but my hope is that we all can take some of the messages in the story and carry them with us as we proceed.

Embrace life, in all its ambiguity.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Big Chair

2010-09-23T17:30:00.000-05:00

Hey there,

Well...The Big Chair has been replaced.

Many people are familiar with The Big Chair.

For those of you who are not and would like to familiarize yourself with it you can read my book :-).

The Big Chair is an over sized fluffy chair with an ottoman on wheels that Bob came home with about 10 years ago. I can still see him carrying it up the stairs to the guest room in our old house and I can still see my sister, Anne, and I carrying it down the stairs to the living room so Bob could sit in it after he could no longer manage the stairs.

The chair has had many purposes over the years and is well loved by all who sit in it. Currently The Big Chair has been inhabiting the honored corner spot of our sun room and not a day passes without someone curled up or sprawled out in it reading.

The Big Chair is not aging well.

It won't come clean and it's fluffiness has become less fluffy. The dog chewed the ottoman and the cats ruined the arms and, frankly, I am growing weary of yelling at the boys about using the ottoman as an indoor scooter. (shouldn't they have grown out of that by now?) Plus, with the ever increasing animal population around here I am forever working at keeping the house smelling fresh and inviting and not like two cats, one dog and two gerbils live here.

It was time for a new chair.

But it's The Big Chair.

I thought it might just be me. This would not be the first time I have held on to something for sentimental reasons and then I can't remember what the sentimental reason was. Or I save something for the boys and then the boys don't recognize the significance of the item. But when I told Henry the plan to replace The Big Chair his eyes started to water immediately and his face took on a strained look.

"But The Big Chair brings back so many memories," he told me. His bottom lip was literally quivering.

Then my eyes started to water and I felt a tug to my heart.

Shit, we can't get rid of The Big Chair.

But we really needed to get something new for the sun room, really, I knew that intellectually.

All three boys came with us shopping and we chose an awesome leather love seat that reclines! The boys loved it at the store. But last night when we started moving The Big Chair to make room for the new love seat that was being delivered today Henry panicked. And then I did too. I started frantically taking measurements under Henry's loft in the boys room.

We could do it, it would be tight, but we could do it.

The Big Chair could fit under the loft if we removed the desk and moved the book shelf. Who needs a desk anyway? It isn't as if the boys ever studied at it. In fact the desk is only used to store all their junk. But getting The Big Chair into the room was going to be another story.(please keep in mind we have three boys in a 10x11room)

It is a Big Chair after all.

I went to talk to Mike about the move. He looked at me with some trepidation and went to the room and began to take his own measurements.

"I know it doesn't make practical or physical sense to remove a desk and make room for this enormous chair in this tiny room, " I told him as he quietly surveyed the room.

He sat down next to me on the bed, a little sigh escaping as he breathed out. I knew he was having a rough week at work.

"...but if we can make this work," I continued, "it would be the best thing emotionally for Henry and me right now." Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes and I choked on the last words a bit.

Mike looked at me, stood up, and started packing up the junk on top of the desk to make the move happen.

It was an event.

The boys were up past their bedtime helping move pillows and remove doors and get gerbil cages out of the way.

We did it! It made it. The Big Chair lives on for now. Perhaps in a few years Henry and I won't remember why we needed to keep that big chair.

I doubt it.

But perhaps.

Today is Mike and my 4th anniversary and Mike could not have given me a better present than to go through the effort of moving that big chair into the boys room last night. The move was impractical and a pain in the butt and a lot of work we didn't need last night but Mike understood what it meant to me to keep that big chair for now and he was willing to honor that no questions asked.

As I watched him strategize and execute getting that big chair into that tight space I don't think I have ever loved him more.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

It's Live!!!!!!!

2010-09-22T20:19:00.009-05:00

Hey there-

I can't believe it.

The book is actually available for sale!!

It only took three years.

Three years if we don't count the years of ruminating on the idea and, of course, the years it took to live it.

Ready or not here it is................ Two Chai Day

http://www.iuniverse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000172539

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

WOW!

2010-09-14T12:17:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

Just when you thought you have heard everything, along comes a ten year old to prove you wrong.

Mike and I were on the committee to help plan Horizon Home Care and Hospice's annual Life Lights benefit for this year. The event raises funds for their Grief Resource Center which is a fabulous facility offering support groups, counseling and resources for the bereaved.

Friday night was a perfect cool clear fall evening at the beautiful Milwaukee Zoo where the event is held. Mike and I were in charge of one of the bars so the Aunts brought the boys to the event. It is truly a fabulous fundraiser with good food, good music, a sunset stroll through the zoo and plenty of opportunities to honor loved ones who have died.

One of the opportunities offered was to write a letter to your loved one and place it in a treasure chest kept safely at the center. Thinking Henry might like to write a note to Bob I went to find him among all the folks enjoying their fish fry.

"Do you want to write a letter to daddy?" I asked, once I had located them. "They have paper and pencils out there so you can write him a note."

"Do you mean my dead real one or my fake live one?" Henry asked in the sincere way he has. He needs to be certain about the expectations.

WOW! This is an interesting turn of events. Henry has always been so clear on who his dad is and who Mike is.

Initially, I was conflicted with his question, in defense of Bob I suppose. Plus, considering the event we were at I thought who the letter was for was rather obvious.

Not obvious to Henry.

Now, before all of you Mike supporters get all up in arms about the use of the word "fake" in Henry's description I would like to point out what a genuine monumental moment this was for Henry, Mike and myself. When Henry was asked to write a note for his daddy he was not sure if I meant Bob or Mike.......WOW!, again.

Fake, real, dead, alive, Henry's got it all.

Lucky boy. Lucky us.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The playground

2010-09-07T13:03:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

I took the dog for a walk this morning. We walked past the playground where Arthur and Henry go to school. As luck would have it Arthur's class was being called in from recess so I had the opportunity to glimpse him in his world.

I love that.

Arthur came around the corner from the "colorful playground" and began to saunter across the black top towards the teacher. He was walking with a friend and talking very animatedly about something very important. I could tell it was important by the deliberate swinging back and forth of his hands and the tilt of his head to the side.

He is never at a loss for words that boy. On our trip to Yellowstone we went horseback riding and Arthur's horse was just behind our guide. He never stopped talking the entire ride. The gal periodically turned towards the rest of the group to fill us in on the topic of conversation. At one point he told her he would "never forget this ride in his whole life".

Where does he get his drama and love of conversation? Hmmmmmmmm, possibly the McGoldrick side?

In contrast, Henry said about two words the entire ride. The guide actually asked me afterwards if he had enjoyed himself. That is just Henry I told her. The next day, after he had a chance to process the event and evaluate the ride against all the other activities we did that day, he let me know what he thought about the excursion.

Where does he get his thoughtful introspection? Hmmmmmm, possibly the Wellenstein side?

Even though people will swear the boys look like twins I don't see it. When I see Henry I see all Wellenstein, and when I see Arthur I see a McGoldrick.

This morning as I watched Arthur confidently stride across the playground I thought how comfortable he looked in his world at that moment. And as I watched him talking to his friend I imagined the teacher telling him to stop talking during class just the way I had been told so many times in class. I shook my head and laughed a bit and thought about the little McGoldrick I had before me.

Just then Arthur stuck both of his hands in his pocket, hunched his shoulders a bit, put his head down and began walking with determination towards the already forming line in front of the teacher.

Oh my, that move was exactly like Bob.

The hair on my arms raised.

Don't forget, Bob reminded me, I had a part in that boy too.

Don't worry, Bob, I will never forget.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Every Year

2010-08-28T17:54:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

Every year.

It happens every year.

Why does it still bother me? Why am I not prepared for it? Why does it always catch me off guard and cause my breath to quicken just a little bit? Why do I still sit and stare at the page in front of me as if I have never seen the word before? I stare at the word as if it is blinking in neon lights.

FATHER

That is all it is.

FATHER

It is just a word.

FATHER

And yet it gets me every time. Still. Every freakin' August. Every year.

FATHER

How do I fill in that blank? Writing "Mike" feels wrong somehow, as if I am saying that Bob never existed, that he had no part in bringing the boys to life. Especially as the years go by and fewer people know our story.

FATHER

There is only a short blank line after the word. Enough room for a name but not nearly enough space to fill in the epic story that word brings up for me.

Every year I gleefully sit down with my lap desk and my pen and the TV on and I begin to fill out the paperwork the school feels is necessary to properly care for my child for seven hours five days a week. ( I really am gleeful, I am one of those scary people who like paperwork. There is something very satisfying for me to see all those blank spots filled in)

But then, it happens, rather quickly, every year.

FATHER

And then I go from gleeful to confused. My hand hesitates above the blank space and my mind wanders off to all sorts of places. Places like the beige apartment where Bob and I were living when that stick turned to a bright blue positive sign and I told Bob we were going to be parents, or the chilly doctors office when we first heard the heartbeat of the child that turned the stick positive, or our big old house when I was crawling around on the carpet in pain and insisting that I didn't think I was in labor while Bob calmly sat on the bed watching me and asking; "If this isn't labor, just what do you think this is?", or the oak tree lined street outside of our house where I first watched Bob strap Henry into the yellow and red bike trailer and head off for an adventure at the park, or the guest room of our house where Bob would bounce and bounce on a big red exercise ball with a fussing Arthur.

FATHER

Who knew the word could conjure up so many random thoughts while Mike quietly sits beside me and watches the latest episode of "Mad Men"?

In the beginning when I got to the word

FATHER

I eventually (after staring at the word for quite a while) wrote Bob's name in the blank and then wrote the word "deceased". Ugh! Then I progressed, after much hemming and hawing (oh, and a wedding), to writing "Mike" but only after I had written the word "step" in front of the word

FATHER

and then in the space available for "Any additional information we might need to know about your child" I would write just a brief summary of my epic. Now, after my usual daydreaming I put "Mike" in the blank and I leave the word

FATHER

as it is on the paper. But I still state that their dad died and how old they were when it happened in the additional info spot.

Jeez, do you think I am over thinking this paperwork thing just a bit?! I bet most people don't take as long as I do to fill out the annual school paperwork. You would think I would dread it. But I don't. I still look forward to it and sit down gleefully. But then, every year, it happens, as if out of the blue.

FATHER

Every year.

I guess I'm a little slow.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Widow Crap

2010-08-10T10:34:00.003-05:00

Hey there,

So many people don't understand.

They don't understand why Mike wants to put up with all of this "widow crap". Why would he want to speak on this topic? Why would either of us? Don't we want to leave it behind? Move on? When will we be done with this already?!?! Why would we even attend Camp Widow, can't we think of better ways to spend time in San Diego with no children?

The summation is that people just don't understand, people who have not lived through the untimely death of a spouse that is.

Following are a few excerpts from comments we received from widowed folks who attended our workshop entitled "Plan B; Remarriage after Widowhood"

"You send an incredible message of hope and that's what this is all about."

"I especially appreciate the openness and candor you and Mike have! Sometimes I felt like I was laughing a little too loudly!"

"The relationship that you and Mike have gives me hope that my Plan B is out there too. :) You are both such an inspiration to me!"

And that is why we do this. If we can give just one person hope that there is happiness and contentment and humor out there after such an incredible loss it is worth it.

After Bob died I remember people saying to me; "You are living my worst nightmare". Well, I was living mine too, thank you very much. But Mike and I "put up with all of this widow crap" because we want folks to know that after you wake from the nightmare, dreams still can come true.

And besides, widows rock! Just ask Mike!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Regret

2010-07-29T12:27:00.007-05:00

Hey there,

I have been a bit of an emotional wreck the last few weeks. Mike will certainly back me up on this statement.

Not sure what it is about.

Could be the final steps of the book publishing have not been going smoothly and I am being constantly reminded of my ineptness when it comes to all things technological.

Could be Henry's birthday on the 23rd and Bob and my wedding anniversary coming up on the 10th (would have been #14). These milestones can still throw me into a bit of a grieving relapse, momentarily throwing me back to square one. Thank goodness that after six years square one doesn't last too long.

Could be the presentation that Mike and I are doing next week in San Diego. Putting together a power point on the unique struggles of remarriage post widowhood has my mind going in all different directions. Plus, as noted before, technology and I are not exactly friends. (do you think the group would be OK with a facilitated discussion? Maybe there will be lots of questions....)

Could be the summer and all the kids being home and the level of chaos in the house not being very conducive to any focused work getting done. Not to mention they keep needing to eat and have clean clothes and get to track meets......

Could be the angst that has been involved in planning our "family" trip this summer to Yellowstone and the Tetons. The teenage girls don't seem to find it the trip of their dreams as we and the boys do and are opting out this year.

Could be the recent email and Facebook postings from two close friends of Bob and mine from our Portland days. One family shared pictures of their trip to the Galapagos Islands and the other family is on practically the exact same vacation we are taking next month only all their children are with them and seemingly having a grand time.

Considering my emotional response to the last "could be" I am thinking this might be the straw that is breaking this camel's back. When I received the picture album from the Galapagos and saw the front picture of the three of them with their arms around each other smiling I was unable to open the rest of the album, seriously. And don't get me started on the Facebook postings from our friends in Wyoming. Throwing the computer across the room came to mind.

Regret has come running out of nowhere and kicked me in the stomach. Ouch!

That was supposed to be us, Bob and me and our little family, happily travelling the world smiling out at cameras from exotic ports. Or headed off on camping excursions to wild and wooded places with our children wide eyed and communicative in the back seat. I never imagined having a child who didn't like to hike or camp or worse yet, not travel at all.

I never imagined so much of what has come to pass.

Now, would any of these imagined joyous trips happened if Bob were still alive? Some most likely, but not all. I am sure behind the smiles toward the camera we would of had our share of grumbling and slouching and arguments about electronic device use. Bob and I would have had budget troubles and gotten annoyed at each other because we were lost and didn't have enough food with us, the kids might have whined to be carried along the trail or worse, just wanted to go back to the hotel and watch TV.

Bob and I never had the chance to be disappointed by a family vacation or the fact that Arthur complains if we walk the dog for more than a block. We never had to decide on rules regarding electronics or whether or not the child has to go on the vacation because it is a family vacation gosh darn it! We never had much of a chance to find out what our family vacations would have looked like. I just know I never imagined them to be involving a six year old with ear buds connected to an iPod hanging out of their ears, or children who didn't like to camp (which I can at least wrap my head around)or travel at all (which I can't understand in the least)or me learning how to play Monopoly on an iTouch and thinking this could be a brilliant way to make it across South Dakota and still have some sanity left. (hey, it beats having one of the kids repeating "I'm Babba Wawa and I'm weally weird" all the way across the state--I really did that by the way, when I was about 10. My poor parents and brother. I am sure if an ITouch would have been available back then they would have happily had me stare at that thing for a while)

All this emotion I am feeling, this regret, it's OK. Regret is sorrow over something you can't change, it's part of life. Sometimes your kids don't turn out how you imagined or your job or your vacation or your life. It doesn't mean it is bad, just different than you imagined. It means you're still living!

As my Italian teacher once said; "You just must accept".

Easier said than done I'm afraid.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Venture

2010-07-05T17:15:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

"You can plan all you want to. You can lie in your morning bed and fill whole notebooks with schemes and intentions. But within a single afternoon, within hours or minutes, everything you plan and everything you have fought to make yourself can be undone as a slug is undone when salt is poured on him. And right up to the moment when you find yourself dissolving into foam you can still believe you are doing fine."

Wallace Stegner
Crossing to Safety

I recently reread this book. I first read Crossing to Safety about 13 years ago when Bob and I were living in Portland, OR. We were young, newly married, child and house free, and enjoying a carefree life in the green and lush Pacific Northwest. Back then I was enamored with the friendship described between the two couples. The friendship begins in the late 1930's when they are all in their 20's and beginning their careers and families. The reader is taken through 40 years of the foursome's joys and struggles as they live their lives amid the backdrop of a great depression, a world war, an economic boom, and social/societal upheaval.

I saw ourselves and our friends in these couples.I would imagine Bob and I 40 years in the future hanging out with our friends that we were close to at the time. Our kids would be grown and we could reminisce, with plenty of side splitting laughter, about child rearing. We would look back on fruitful careers, our travels, and other shared experiences.

Ah, it would be so lovely.

And even though the couples in the story have many obstacles they overcome it never occurred to me during that first read how it might feel to be living those obstacles. I just romanticised the ending, the looking back on all the accomplishments and relishing that we are still together after all these years.

I assumed we would all still be together and happy. That was the plan.

But as Stegner so aptly tells us: you can plan all you want to.

Reading the book this time around I see it through different eyes. Instead of eyes filled with beginnings and optimism, I see the story through eyes filled with new beginnings and reality. It might sound dreadful but it's not. Reality does not negate optimism, it just humbles it a bit.

On the last page Stegner writes: "If we could have foreseen the future during those good days in Madison where all this began, we might not have had the nerve to venture into it."

In my 20s if someone had told me that when I was 35 and pregnant my husband would get cancer and I would be widowed a year later with two small boys to raise I think I would have kindly said no thank you. Who would sign up for that? That sounds like an awful plan. I doubt these hardships are never part of any ones plan.

Thank goodness we don't know the future in advance. Would knowing change our choices? I could have missed out on 10 fabulous years with Bob. (OK, 9 fabulous ones and one kind of sucky one) Or I might have chosen not to have Henry and Arthur. (and what would the aunts be doing then?!)

So, would anyone like to guess what might happen in the next 13 years? I'm sure I don't know. But I am still making plans, even though I have been that slug dissolving into foam, I am still optimistic enough to plan, to venture into the unknown.

What else is there?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Safety Town

2010-06-26T15:28:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

Who out there loves Safety Town? We did!

In case you don't know, Safety Town is a program for four-year-olds that teaches them about safety. i.e. crossing the street, bike safety, what to do for a fire or if you are lost, etc. They get to meet Policemen and sit in their cars and all sorts of cool stuff. I think it is a national program but I am not sure.

Arthur absolutely loved it. He still talks about it when we drive by the playground where it was held. Every summer when he sees the familiar orange cones set up on the blacktop he, rather wistfully, asks me if he gets to go back to Safety Town.

"Nope," I tell him, "you are all safe now." (how I wish that were true, right? If Safety Town was truly all you needed to get your kids through to 18)

This year as we drove by and saw the little ones trooping around on their bikes with their helmets and the tiny stop and yield signs Henry wondered aloud why he didn't remember Safety Town.

"Because you never went," I told him.

"Why not," he asked. "Didn't you want me to be safe?"

"Well, you were four the summer after your daddy died, we didn't do much of anything that summer, sorry sweetie," I responded simply.

Flashing back to that summer I suddenly felt heavy and sluggish remembering the effort it had taken me to get food on the table or take the boys out the door for the simplest trip down the street to the park. I thought that was the only answer that was necessary, it explained everything.

"I remember we went to the zoo that summer and there was a HUGE thunderstorm and when we got home there was a branch from our tree in our yard and you didn't know what you were going to do but by the next morning our neighbor had cut it up and taken it away and it was all cleaned up," Henry told me.

"Oh yea, I remember that storm, that was crazy. That was so nice of Franz to clean that up for us."

"And I remember we drove a long way to a farm, I think it is my Aunts farm or something, and there were lamps that looked like elephants and lots of other boys and your brother took me to a place with rides and we kayaked on a pond and there was a shower outside."

"Yup, that was a fun trip."

"And I remember Grandma and Grandpa being at the house sometimes and Grandpa read me "The Kings Stilts" and he did that sack of potato thing you do with Arthur sometimes when I got out of the tub."

"Yea, Grandma and Grandpa visited a lot that summer to help. We have that picture on the wall of Grandpa reading you "The King's Stilts" that summer."

"We did a lot that summer," Henry continued from the backseat. "We probably didn't have time for Safety Town."

Does Henry need to know that I cried the night the tree fell in our yard because that one branch felt like an insurmountable obstacle as I stood in the kitchen opening instant oatmeal packets for dinner with tears streaming down my face? Does he need to know that my brother flew in to town early to drive with us up to the farm because without him with us I don't know if I would have had the courage to drive the seven hours to the farm on our own? Does Henry need to know that Grandma and Grandpa were visiting so often helping me survive and get the house in order to sell because I couldn't handle the house without his dad? Does he need to know that I wasn't even aware that Safety Town existed because I was too busy trying to remain upright and simply make it through the day?

I don't think so. All Henry needs to know is that we went places that summer, we had fun experiences, our neighbors were thoughtful and our family nurtured us.

Henry might not have been able to attend Safety Town when he was four, but he learned a lot about safety that summer. He knows that in the worst of circumstances he was kept safe and loved by his own little safety town made up of neighbors, friends and family. That has to be better than little stop signs and cop cars......no one tell Arthur.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Co-parenting?

2010-06-18T09:17:00.004-05:00

Hey there,

Mike took my boys camping for a night last weekend. It is too long and boring of a story to explain how that came to pass, but it did. You would think there would have been great rejoicing on my end for a night to myself, to be alone in the house for 24hours, something that has not happened since Mike and I met.

But no.

The first couple hours I spent feeling guilty. (darn Catholic upbringing) And then I moved on to feeling like I was missing out on some great experience or memory that might be forming out in the wilderness that night.

The second concern doesn't bother me so much. I miss out on many experiences they have at school and when they are with their aunts, so I got over that one rather quickly. It is the guilt that pisses me off.

When Henry was a baby and I would talk about going to book group, a night out with the girls, or a movie I had seen there was always a coworker who would say; "Wow, so Bob babysat the baby?"

"No, Bob did not 'babysit' the baby, he parented his son," was my usual reply.

I don't have that same feeling with Mike and the boys. I always feel he is doing me some huge favor if he stays home with the boys while I go to book group or go out for wine with a girlfriend. I don't feel he is parenting as much as he is staying home with my boys.

If it were Bob that took the boys camping would I have felt the same guilt? I don't think so. I think I still might have had a twinge of sadness that I was missing out on something, because I do like to camp, but I would have felt like it was some daddy/son time, a little male bonding in the woods. Instead I felt gratitude that Mike was willing to take them.

This feeling of gratitude is something I struggle with, the nagging feeling that I should be so thankful that Mike is willing to spend time with my kids, like I owe him a big favor in return. There is a sense of imbalance to it. With Bob I never felt the imbalance. I was grateful to have Bob and thankful he was such an awesome dad but there was no feeling like he was doing me a favor that I needed to repay, he was simply being a dad, being a co-parent.

With Bob I felt the responsibility of parenting as a 50/50 endeavor. With Mike I feel I have 100% of the responsibility and I should feel grateful when he can help me out. This is no fault of Mikes, I take much of the blame for this set up really. Frankly, I don't always want to ask Mike's opinion on parenting issues, I want the bottom line with my boys.

Certainly, if Bob had lived we would not see eye to eye on every decision and I would not have had the bottom line or gotten everything I wanted. When he was dying I spent most of my grieving efforts freaking out about parenting alone, feeling all that burden. But after he died I realized the privilege of making all the decisions on my own. It is a blessing and a curse. One of the benefits of being widowed versus being divorced.

Is this fair? Is it the best thing for everyone? We lost so much, is it wrong to try and hold on to a little bit of control, even though we all know control is an illusion? Does having the bottom line come at a cost to me, to the boys, to Mike? It is exhausting I know that.

Will I ever feel like I am co-parenting with Mike?

I don't know, I hope so, but I also don't hope so. Yikes, does the grieving work ever end?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Water Parent

2010-06-09T11:10:00.001-05:00

Hey There-

Bob agreed to be the "water parent". You know, the one who goes in the water with the child when you are camping or at the beach and the one who takes the child to their first swimming lessons before they can go by themselves.

In exchange I agreed to be the "zoo" parent. Neither of us were/are zoo fans but I thought it was a good trade since the zoo did not require me to get wet and cold.

As it turned out the Aunts liked taking Henry to the zoo, and later both boys, so I never really kept up my end of the bargain.

Pay back's a bitch!

The memories of Henry at his first swim lessons still haunt me. They were held the months before Bob died. Bob had a PIC line in for his latest treatment so he couldn't be immersed in water or I swear I would have still made him hold up our agreement, weakened condition and all. I even signed little three year old Henry up for classes that didn't require a parent in the water with the child figuring he was bold in the water and an independent sort, he would be fine.

Wrong!

The sounds of his screaming ricocheted off the concrete walls of the pool and slammed Bob and I in the face as the two of us stoically stood behind the glass in the waiting area. You might have thought the instructor was setting his feet in hot lava as opposed to the lukewarm chlorine laden pool. It was almost horrific. I knew the entire pool area was staring at the three of us and the poor instructor but that didn't really register at the time. I could only hear Henry's cries and feel my pounding heart.

I was steadfast and we tried again the next week. By the third week I began to come to terms with the situation. Not my fate, but at least the fact that the other parents were wasting their money. Their children would never learn to swim with all the drama going on. So I moved Henry to the class WITH the parents and I got in that lukewarm pool, chlorine and urine and all, and I sang that silly "Wheels on the Bus" song, but I wasn't happy about it.

Nor was I happy when I had to get in the frigid water of the pool at my parent's apartment the second summer after Bob died, having successfully avoided any need to submerge myself in water the summer before by forcing the boys to be happy with the "hang out by the shoreline and dig in the sand" parent. We were lucky to even get out of the house and make it to an area of nature that had water that first summer.

Well, now the boys can both swim on their own, I have passed that hurtle, and I can resume my "sit on the beach and read" parent status but, alas, these energetic boys of mine have different ideas, they still want a "water parent". Truth be told I was hardly ever a "water parent", I was more of a "walk around on my tip toes and try not to get my shoulders and hair wet" parent.

I see dads throwing their kids high in the air and I watch these children laugh gleefully as they hurtle through the air and splash into the water. I see other parents out in the water tossing Frisbee's and footballs and frolicking. I have twinges of guilt and think to myself that I should really just suck it up, get out there and be a gosh darn "water parent".

Recently, while camping, Henry raced up to Mike and I, dripping lake water and smelling like sunscreen, his eyes bright with hope, his voice high with excitement.

"Will you come in the water and throw us up in the air?"

We both quickly looked pleadingly to Mike, the dad person, who never agreed to be the "water parent" and has no interest in it either. He will usually go out there for a bit because he is a good guy but I truly wish I could say; "Absolutely, I would love to come out and play in the water with you guys." I actually wish I was already out there and they wouldn't have to ask. But there is this voice in my head that won't leave, it is quieter than it used to be but it is still there. It says..."I didn't agree to this, I never wanted to be the "water parent", your dad agreed to be the "water parent".....NO!"

Come on, I have figured out how to make Bob's pizza, his pancakes, put the bike rack on the car and go camping without him, isn't that enough? Do I have to be a "water parent" too?

I have no memories of my parents ever being "water parents" and I seem to be fine. In fact, the one memory I do have of my father ever being in the water involves a father/daughter race on the Fourth of July that he lost a half link lead I gave him. (I know you did your best dad, I harbor no grudge)

I am the "bike riding" parent, the "tennis playing" parent, the "knowing when the books are due at the library" parent, the "making lunches" parent, the "library volunteer" parent, the "take them to the dentist" parent, the "card playing" parent, the "popcorn popping" parent, the "baking" parent, the "good smelling bath" parent,the "remember when you have a math test" parent, the "book reading" parent, the "travel" parent, the "dinner's on the table" parent, the "board game playing" parent, the "make the beds" parent.

I am so many things, I am THE parent. Do I HAVE to be the "water parent" too? Really?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Book

2010-06-04T12:19:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

I was talking to my mom recently and she asked me the ever present question these days.......what is happening with the book? Actually, many people have stopped asking me due to boredom or fear that I have abandoned the project and they don't want me to feel like I have to explain.

Fear not! The book is "in production". Whatever that means. The publisher is currently working on the "cover copy polish". Whatever that means. And I hope to have a book by the end of the summer.

Of course, I thought I would have a book by the end of spring. Not to mention the fact that I originally "took a year off" to write a book and we are careening up to the three year mark as I write.

I am learning patience my dad says. I don't think I am learning it as well as my husband is learning it that is for sure!

I could compare this entire book writing process to having a baby. Sometimes it takes longer than you think, it can be painful, it can be amazing, there is a lot of sacrifice, it is a miracle, it is scary, lots of it is out of your control, you don't know how it will all turn out in the end, and it helps to have a good partner.

When I was pregnant with Henry and I would wonder how on earth this being in my belly was supposed to emerge from my body I used to look at all the people around me, whether I was in a coffee shop or sitting at a traffic light, and I would think to myself; "Well, every single person on this earth was birthed somehow, so it must be possible."

I now find myself doing the same thing with books. I look at all the books on our bookshelves at home or at the book store and I think; "Well, somehow these were written and published so it must be possible."

At least I can drink wine this time around!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Henry's Return

2010-05-25T14:12:00.002-05:00

At day twenty or twenty-one, we were pushing hard for discharge from the co-op. Bob’s low blood pressure was keeping us caged and pacing. He was clear of infection but couldn’t get his blood pressure up or his appetite back. We had hoped to be back at the apartment by the time Henry returned but it appeared Bob’s blood pressure was not following our plan.

Henry arrived back in Omaha with his Aunt Kathy, his blue eyes wide, giving us the Henry Stare when I opened the door and found them standing stiffly in the hallway. My nine month pregnant belly blocked the doorway and I was still wearing the latex gloves and yellow mask needed for the dressing change I had just performed on Bob’s central line. Bob cautiously stood up from the chair, careful not to get lightheaded from the effort, pulled his shoulders back, and raised his bony face toward his son.

Henry, standing in that dimly lit hallway, looked older than his three years. His eyes were weighted by all the thoughts swirling in his head, his body guarded, ready for the next blow. Henry looked at us as if we were apparitions. It had only been three weeks but a lifetime had passed since we last saw each other. We were surely different people now.

How could we come back together from these different lives we had been living and resume our life as a family? Were we still speaking the same language?

Connection

2010-05-18T12:10:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

I find washing another person's hair one of the most physically nurturing things you can do for a person. A foot or hand massage comes in a close second.

Every Monday I "watch" my mother-in-law. She is 86 and has memory loss, bad eyesight, pain in her knees, and poor hearing. She lives by herself next door to two of her daughters. I like to think of it as the Milwaukee Wellenstein compound.

One of the activities we do together is a bath. (well, we don't do it TOGETHER....)I fill the tub for her and make sure she gets in safely and put in some good smelling essential oils or bath salts her daughter mixes up. Once situated she lays back, closes her eyes, and groans in utter relaxation.

"That smells great," I heard her say yesterday as I walked down the hallway. I smiled because I think aroma is so important and it was very satisfying to hear her appreciate the bath salts.

After she lingers in the tub a while I get to wash her hair. It can be a tricky task because I seem to have difficulty regulating the temperature of the water that comes out of the hand held shower;

"That's too hot.....now that's too cold!" she yells (because her hearing aide is out) at me as I try to rinse the soap out without scalding her scalp.

Even with the water temperature challenge I love to wash her hair. I give her a nice scalp massage and she moans in gratitude. But that is not why I love it. Something about washing her hair makes me feel so close to Bob. I can't explain why the action of washing Bobs mom's hair makes me think of Bob every time, but it does.

I miss washing the boys hair for them now that they shower and do it on their own. I hear some parents complain about bath time but it is one thing I really miss with the boys growing up.(It just might be the only thing I miss!) As long as we weren't rushed I enjoyed the frolicking and splashing and the smell of lavender and orange wafting up from the water. I loved rubbing their little heads, soaping up their hair and watching the bubbles run down their back as I rinsed them off.

Occasionally these days Arthur will ask me to come in and wash his feet. I sing a silly song and tickle him when I lather up the toes and he loves it. But neither of them ever ask me to wash their hair anymore.

But I get to do their grandma's hair, and I find it even more satisfying. I think it has to do with the fact that I can no longer nurture her son. While I did massage Bob's feet with peppermint oil right up until the end, I never washed his hair, and I will never have the chance to now since we aren't growing old together as planned.

My sisters-in-law act like I am doing them a big favor even though I am not spending time with my mother-in-law simply out of the kindness of my heart, they do pay me for my time. No one tell them but I think it is they who are doing me the favor,and I don't mean financially. I am the one who is receiving the biggest rewards from the situation. I get to do a little pampering for the person who was literally connected to Bob for nine months. Maybe that is why I feel such a connection to Bob when I wash her hair.

Every week I get to nurture the woman who nurtured the father of my children, I think that is pretty special.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Conference

2010-05-14T11:28:00.001-05:00

Hey there-

Mike and I wrote a proposal to do a presentation at Camp Widow hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. (www.sslf.org)

It was accepted!

The camp is August 6-8, 2010 in San Diego and our topic is remarriage after widowhood. We are calling it "Plan B", the same as my new blog for milwaukeemoms.com

We are excited about the opportunity to share our story and inspire others in similar situations.

There are lots of other very cool topics that will be addressed during the weekend and good old fashioned camaraderie. If anyone knows of anyone who might benefit please send them to the website and have them check it out. www.sslf.org

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Perspective

2010-05-07T12:04:00.002-05:00

Hey there,

I am working on perspective with Henry.

He has none.

If he forgets his lunchbox at school (which he has done exactly one time) he storms around the house throwing things and yelling about how stupid he is and that he does not deserve to be in the third grade. If he forgets his library books (which he has done exactly one time)he, once again, beats himself up, crying about how embarrassing it was and it was “all his fault” that his class didn’t get any cookies because he was the ONLY one to forget his library books. One time he forgot to do his math homework (one time) and the whole house had to hear about how much he hates to forget his homework and how stupid he is and now his teacher was going to SAY something to him.

The horror!

Come on. You would think I punish him with a branding iron if ever forgets anything. When in actuality I go the other way, trying to explain to him that these events are not that big a deal in the grand scheme of life. It is only third grade and it was only one time. Much worse things could happen; we could be living in Haiti and have no place to live or running water, we could be living in America and have no house and no running water, our house could burn down, your dad could be dead.

Wait, that one really happened. Oh dear.

Therein lies the problem for me. I believe Henry should have some built in perspective meter due to the fact that he has survived much worse. Forgotten library books and lunchboxes seem rather trivial compared to your dad dying. Am I right? Really, if Bob’s death has taught us anything let it be not to sweat the small stuff.

Enjoy the small stuff, but don’t sweat it.

But apparently that is not the way it works, at least not for Henry. Maybe the opposite has happened. He knows that bad stuff does happen, and for no apparent reason. So why not freak out about small stuff like forgotten homework or library books? Next thing you know your dad might be dead. Life is a precarious event.

But that is not the lesson I want to be taken away from Bob dying. I want the lesson to be that we should be grateful for what we have and enjoy people while they are here and that your lunchbox is not that big of a deal. There is always a paper bag.

I know I have lost some of the clarity that comes with being so close to tragedy. I have blogged about it before, that feeling of being stripped of everything but the most basic necessities, and the clear knowledge that nothing matters but love, affection, nourishment, and safety.

Over the last six years the layers have built up again and I find myself getting agitated about being late to swim lessons or to a dinner date with friends, pretty small stuff in the grand scheme of things. If I want Henry to gain some perspective I need to gain it back myself. I don’t want to be living another tragedy, but I long for that stripped down feeling that made it so easy to know what was important and what wasn’t. Where can I find that and how can I teach that to my children, without someone having to die that is?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

TV Debut

2010-04-30T13:59:00.006-05:00

Hey there-

I was on a local morning talk show April 29, 2010 regarding another blog I do for MilwaukeeMoms.com. The theme of the blog is parenting without the intended partner. "Plan B" I named it.

Below is a link if you are interested in viewing the six minute clip. The clip will be available for 60 days. I hope to offer understanding and insight into relationships post widowhood.

I apologize to those of you who have already seen this clip but I wanted to make sure I had hit all cyberspace avenues.

http://www.themorningblend.com/videos/91844584.html
(copy and paste into your browser window)

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

A Boy and His Dog

2010-04-27T11:53:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

Yes, you are seeing correctly. Henry is walking our new puppy!!!

Meet Zeus, the newest addition to the McHoganStein clan. He is a lab/shar pei mix, they think, and is about 10 weeks old. He was found on the side of the road so it’s all just guess work.

I know, I know, I never wanted a dog. I never wanted kids either and now look at me, I ‘m responsible for five! Yikes! I know, I know, like I need any more responsibility, right?

I blame it all on Bob.

Bob always wanted a dog growing up but his parents both grew up on farms and believed that dogs were outside animals, not inside pets.

“Henry is going to have a dog,” Bob would say after Henry was born.

I thought that would be fine. I could keep my “I don’t do dogs” attitude and Bob could get his dog (for Henry) and any time the dog needed anything I could say; “You wanted it, it’s YOUR dog.”

Well, then Bob had to go and die on me and ruin my plans. You see, secretly I had begun to agree with him, I thought Henry should have a dog; he just seems like a kid who should have a dog. I started to believe that a child should have a dog growing up. What is childhood without a dog?

Now, I never had a dog growing up and I turned out OK. (Stop the snickering) I never felt deprived either. I did have a ferret but that is a story for another blog. But I just couldn’t shake my growing desire to have a dog in the house.

When I met Mike I assumed he would want a dog since he had one before. I was so happy I could continue with my master plan. But alas, Mike did not really want another dog and my plan was thwarted. If we were going to get a dog it was going to have to be my idea and my responsibility.

Ughhhhhh!

Well, I have been warming myself up to this dog thing for a long time. I even went so far as to check out some websites and talk to people about the idea. Then on Sat. we were going to the pet store to price a gerbil for the boys and on the way out the door Mike asked if we should ‘swing by the Humane Society and check out this puppy he saw on their site that morning’.

I won’t bore you with the details but we came home with a puppy, not a gerbil.

I think both Mike and I can take credit for this additional chaos in our lives, and we will both take responsibility, which is probably a better idea than my master plan. And it has been very fun watching the kids with the dog. Mike’s oldest, Aubrey, 16, even came home right after school yesterday. Now that is big!

Maybe we should thank Bob for all this dog craziness.

Check back with me in about a month when all the excitement has worn off and “dog patrol” becomes just another chore that I have to nag the kids about doing. For now I will enjoy the picture I have before me; a boy and his dog.

Thanks Bob, I couldn't have done it without you.

Thanks for checking in-
Irene

Acceptance

2010-04-21T11:25:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

I just returned from the doctor with Arthur. It happened again.

"Dad's name?" The young assistant asked me innocently after taking Arthur's temperature and listening to his heart.

I just looked at her for a good 3o seconds. I am sure she thought I had some kind of hearing problem or was just dim witted. It isn't that hard of a question I realize. They just want a name. It's not rocket science. Just give the nice lady a name.

"Um, he's dead.......," I finally answered. "....but he has a name," I continued as if she were now the one who was dim witted.

I explained to this patient gal that I never was sure how to answer this question since I was remarried and my live husband carried the health insurance. So, did they want his name and did any of this information I was rattling on about even matter to her anyway? Too much information, stop talking I told myself, just stop talking.

"Well, we need it for a medical history.....," she told me hesitantly.

"OK, Bob, his name was Bob."

"Birth date?"

" 4/2/62.....no wait, that's Mike's year....'64, yea 4/2/64"

She waited a minute to make sure I was sure before putting it in the computer.

"Any health issues?"

"Um, he died, I would say that is a health problem," I laughed.

She chuckled, hesitantly. I don't think she thought I was dim witted anymore, she thought I was a nut job.

"Cancer, non-Hodgkin's lymphoma." I tried to get serious.

She typed the information in, closed her laptop, thanked me, told us the doctor would be right in and walked out the door.

Arthur looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, gave one of his half smiles, and went back to his book.

I know we aren't the only one's with a dead dad. There are so many family configurations, I am sure there have to be many with an unknown dad or an absentee dad. Or what about the adopted dad, does his medical information matter? It seems like such a loaded question these days they should send a social worker in to ask the question and not a 22 year old medical technician.

But I am not going to worry about all that today. I am not worried about what information the doctors office needs for their records or how they obtain it. What I am going to concentrate on is how good I was feeling this morning as Arthur and I waited for the doctor to appear in the room. I found the exchange between the med tech and myself to be humorous, another funny story. When I told her non-Hodgkin's lymphoma I didn't tear up and the words didn't stick in my throat, it was just information, a fact of life. And when I mixed up Bob's birth date with Mike's? That was funny too, I think it is a good sign, a sign that the two men seem equal somehow.

It may be a lot to take away from a short interaction and a few simple questions. But what it all says to me is that I might just be in that spot that I have been working so hard and so long for, acceptance.

It is what it is, no apologies, no excuses, no regrets.

At least for today.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

lov

2010-04-12T14:44:00.006-05:00

Hey there-

Sometimes things work out better than you hoped.

I love that!

We celebrate Bob's birthday every year with pizza (a dish he was famous for making, with yeast and everything), a favorite dessert of his (varies from year to year), Sprecher soda (a local favorite) and balloons that we let off into the universe.

I am a person who believes in ritual and I feel it is important to continue to celebrate the day Bob was born. Even though Bob is no longer here to celebrate his birthday with us it is certainly still a day worth celebrating.

The first pizza and balloon party Henry and Arthur were just one and four and I had to drag the KitchenAid from the way back of the shelf, dust it off, and weed through all of Bob's cook books to find the correct crust recipe. Each year the boys have enjoyed the balloon tradition but it has grown in meaning. The first year Arthur just wanted to suck on the balloon and this year he picked out his own rainbow design. Last year I succumbed to store bought crust after three years of struggling to perfect Bob's crust. This year we had dough from a specialty shop that we still got to roll out and toss up in the air.

So things are evolving, but the heart of the event remains the same.

This year I was awoken on the day of the party to the tears of Arthur and a piece of paper being thrust in my face. He and Henry were writing notes to their daddy to attach to the balloons and Henry had told him his was "dumb". Arthur's note, written all by himself, said;

I lov you. Do you lov me. Lov, Arthur

Henry thought it was dumb because "obviously Daddy loves him", and there is an "e" on the end of love.

I thought it was the most precious thing I had ever read in my life.

Henry's note was much more Henry like; Are you happy in Heaven? I am doing good here. It has been hard and sad without you. Could you send me a note please? I hope you have the best birthday ever. Signed, Henry

Once I recovered from the emotions the letters brought up (it was way too early and I hadn't had my chai yet) we all went downstairs to make the cherry bars we were bringing for dessert. Once those were out of the oven we were off to pick out the balloons and then head to the aunts where we started making the pizzas. We all laughed when Henry threw that crust in the air as if he were in some kind of disc throwing competition, flour flying all over the kitchen and coming to rest on his eyelashes.

After the pizza was devoured we sent the balloons off with a "happy birthday, Bob" toast. Arthur's balloon with his note tied to it went sailing over the trees and into the universe. Henry's got stuck in the tree in the front yard and we all watched while the balloon valiantly attempted to free itself and sail off. Mike eventually got some long stick thing from the basement and hung over the porch railing trying to free that darn thing.

He was only successful in scaring us all, especially Henry who decided he didn't want to be sending balloons off for Mike on his next birthday. Stuck balloon or not it was a wonderful party all the same.

Last night I was thinking about what a great afternoon we had. I was so proud of the boys for writing those notes all on their own (although Henry could have been a bit nicer and they could have waited a little longer to show them to me)and remembering Henry tossing the crust in the air made me smile. The birthday ritual has turned out better than I had hoped when I started it five years ago.

Each year the boys understand a little more about the significance of the event and the note writing gives me a little window into how they are feeling about their dads absence. What do they believe? How are they feeling? Does Henry really think his dad can write him a note? Does Arthur truly doubt his dad loved him?

The answer to that last question is so obvious to me. It was so obvious when I saw Bob holding Arthur and bouncing with him on the big exercise ball to try to get him to sleep when he was first born. I saw how hard Bob tried to stay alive so he could be there for both the boys as they grew up. I remember Bob smiling at Arthur and holding his little thumbs and saying softly to him; "I love you little guy."

But Arthur doesn't remember those things. Henry has some memories of things he did with his daddy; going down the "roller slide" at the park, going on bike rides to the lake, talking about what his dreams might be as he went to sleep, making pizza with him. Henry has concrete proof his dad loved him, but Arthur doesn't.

So the birthday ritual is turning out even better than I hoped. It gives me and the boys and Bob's family an opportunity to celebrate the fact that Bob was born. And we get to celebrate with many of Bob's favorite things that he enjoyed here on earth.

Two of those things, the most important things, being his boys. I will be sure to remind Arthur of that more often this year.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

2 ChaiDay

2010-03-29T14:50:00.006-05:00

Hay there-

Well, another two chai day has arrived.

For those that might not understand that statement.......

The day that Bob died was established a "two chai day" by my friend, Mark, who was one of my support people with me those last days. I am oddly structure about weird things at times and I only allow myself one chai latte per day. But at seven in the morning when you are sitting around your dining room table with all your support people in the grey morning light and awkward silence and you have already been up for hours and you are waiting for the undertakers to arrive and your three year old is asking you way too many questions about his daddy who is still lying in the living room and your five month old starts making noise to be nursed and you are holding your coffee mug so tightly that your knuckles are turning white while you stare at the last remaining foam at the bottom of the mug thinking that you will probably never have another chai again since your now dead husband always made it for you and maybe if you stare at the foam long enough some of it might somehow burst into just one more sip of the delicious, spicy, warm, drink that makes you think of Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie and being cared for and nurtured.

And then a friend reaches out his hand and gently takes that mug from your clutches and as you look at him dubiously he says;

"Irene, I think it's a two chai day."

And why not? Why can't you have a second chai that day? No reason in the world.

I have declared every March 29th to be a two chai day. There have been other two chai days on occasion as well, days when I just needed a little bit of extra comfort, a little Thanksgiving.

I realized I was out of chai last night too late to get to the store. But have no fear, my sainted live husband picked some up early this morning and made me a perfectly frothed deliciously spiced chai. It was pure love and comfort that I could never have imagined would be mine six years ago.

Life is unpredictable, and it can be rough at times, and sometimes you just have to allow yourself to have a two chai day.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

March

2010-03-24T21:24:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

I don't like March.

It has never been my favorite month. March has always seemed so long to me, longer than any other month somehow. The weeks stretch out with no holiday weekends. And by March I am soooo ready for winter to be over, but spring is nowhere close to arriving here in the Midwest.

The only time I have found March palatable was when Bob and I were living in Portland. In Portland March had the white petals of the dogwood trees, the pink blooms of the azalea bushes, the rich reds of the tulips, some yellow from late blooming daffodils, delicate purples of the early iris', plus the varied greens from all the ferns unfolding from the damp earth. In Portland March was an array of colors. Then we moved back to Milwaukee and March became brown and grey once again.

To make matters worse Bob was diagnosed in March, and then he died the next March, making March even more bleak.

Now it is March again. Another mourning march. I can recall so vividly the events happening exactly six years ago on this date. Last night was the night that I called my sister, Anne, the one who was going to come "when things got bad". I had my last lucid conversation with Bob that same night, just before I made the phone call. I was apologizing to him for following him around the house like a toddler. I tried to explain how worried I was that something would happen to him and I wasn't going to be able to handle it.

"Don't worry, Renie, you will," he told me.

Bob spoke so clearly, with that calm, thoughtful tone of his. He looked me straight in the eyes when he said it and I knew he was talking about more than just the next few days.

Well, it's six years later, and here we are, another March, alive and well. I severly doubted his wisdom at times, but Bob was right, as he usually was, I handled everything, just barely sometimes, but I handled it.

No worries. (HA! Well, I am glad he had none anyway)

It takes a whole lot of patience and confidence that there will, indeed, be new life coming out of that kind of darkness. I am thankful for the confidence Bob had in me, and I am thankful Bob died in March, when all the new life forcing it's way out of the cold dark earth is a reminder of the resilience and the undaunted possibility of the human spirit.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Blender

2010-03-17T12:19:00.000-05:00

I walked into the Living Room after hanging up the phone with my sister, Anne. Laughing, I repeated the conversation about the blender to Bob. I thought it was a cute that my family remembered how important the morning smoothie was to Henry and a very telling story about the McGoldrick attention to detail.

Bob obviously did not find the story so funny. His blue eyes darkened with worry. I sat down on the couch primly, hands carefully placed on my knees, waiting for him to reveal himself.

“You know Renie, I might not even be able to go to Nebraska. If my blood counts aren’t good or if the radiation doesn’t work,” he trailed off, reaching for his latte. It had to be cold by now.

I appreciated his concern. It was not easy to be at the mercy of tumors, blood counts, and doctors opinions. Now tickets were being purchased, calendars were being changed, apartments were being rented, all this planning because of Bob. What if it didn’t happen? What if we couldn’t go? What if the tumor didn’t go away?

“Well,” I spoke curtly, “The McGoldrick’s are mobilizing, Bob. You can’t stop them. This is their chance to help, to get involved. So we are going to Nebraska, whether or not you are getting a stem cell transplant, we are going to Nebraska.”

I stood up and walked out of the room, without even a glance behind me.

Conundrum

2010-03-07T20:30:00.000-06:00

Hey there-

I recently returned from a trip to Colorado. I like to get the boys out there to visit my family and do a little skiing. We stayed with some friends of mine from college. One evening we were having a lovely adults only meal in the dining room complete with candles.(we like to light candles at home but the boys just want to blow them out so they can dip their fingers in the hot wax and make wax finger tips that I later find all over the house-kind of ruins the ambiance of the candlelight for me)

My friends have two boys of their own and all four boys were busy watching some Olympic ski jump competition on the TV. Visions of rigging up a jump of their own in the backyard were racing through their little boy minds no doubt.

While enjoying the relative peace and quiet and good conversation with completed sentences and everything the all too common topic came up of "How does Mike do it?"

How does he live in the shadow of the sainted dead husband?

"I couldn't do it," said my friend. "It's gotta be tough."

I am not picking on this particular friend, I have heard this sentiment many a time from all different people. Mike's friends (some of whom suggested he not even date a widow to begin with), my friends, my family (some of whom suggested I not mention Bob's name in front of Mike), neighbors, coworkers......the list goes on. Everyone seems to believe that Mike deserves some kind of medal for putting up with the likes of me. A widow who remembers her late husband fondly, misses him and believes that he should still be a presence in his sons lives even though (especially because) he is not here live and in person. I never seem to get an equal amount of recognition for putting up with my particular situation, maybe because the phrase sainted ex-wife is not sweeping the nation.

But I am not bitter.

Let me state for the record that I think Mike is am amazing man. He is my greatest fan and supporter, has a great sense of self, is very concerned about my happiness,is great with my boys, and has a wonderful sense of humor about the whole sainted dead spouse thing. One of my favorite examples to share is a time we were spending the night at a friend's house. This was a couple that Bob and I were very close to and Mike was meeting for the first time. The topic of where people would sleep came up and the husband said to the wife; "Irene and Bob could sleep in our bed". While I was cringing on the other side of the table Mike leaned over to me and asked; "Where am I going to sleep?"

See, now that is funny! What are you going to do, be upset? It was an honest mistake.

Anyway,the boys and I were driving to the library yesterday when I heard a familiar CSN tune come on the radio.

"If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one your with." (That would be Crosby, Stills and Nash for those not familiar)

I don't know that the lyrics were meant to speak to a widow necessarily, I am thinking it was more of a war time song, but these words spoke to me during this particular outing.

I can't be with Bob. But I can be with Mike. And I can love him. Not the same way I loved Bob, but not any less, just different. Mike is here....right next to me. (as the song goes)

Maybe it is all just too weird for people not in the situation to understand. It is a conundrum for sure. People try and put themselves in our place and imagine, and maybe you just can't imagine. And both Mike and I seem unable to explain it to people so that they seem to truly understand. We seem to get a lot of odd looks and shaking heads.

Well, I will keep working on the right words. But until then I will continue to love the one I am with as best I can. And, hopefully, the rest will work itself out.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Oldest

2010-03-02T13:25:00.007-06:00

Hey there-

Just a quick update regarding my last post. I thank everyone for their advice and support. This parenting stuff is hard work!

Henry will stay where he is for now. His first choice would be for me to home school him but I believe everyone should stick with their strengths and that is NOT mine. Left to our own devices Henry and I would rarely leave the house and would spend the day either reading, baking,sprouting apple trees from seeds, or Googling the latest Greek God Henry was obsessed with. We might take a break for a walk or bike ride around the neighborhood but I am not sure those activities alone would make for a well rounded child.

Anyway, when it came down to it Henry said he would rather be the oldest.

"I am kind of small, you know, Mom," he told me.

I believe Henry will learn because he wants to learn. Bob's greatest concern would have been that Henry live up to his potential as Bob felt he did not. But that concern seems to be universal amongst parents. Luckily, Henry is rather driven at this point so that is not a concern of mine as of right now.

I will keep you posted and until then....in the words of Nancy McGoldrick, and my current mantra;

I am just doing the best I can.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

WWBD?

2010-02-13T17:20:00.003-06:00

Hey there-

I am having an F-you Bob kind of a week.

That's right, pardon my language, but F-you Bob for leaving me here to raise these boys and make all these decisions without you.

Oh, I can ask family and friends and my husband for advice, but in the end the decisions feel 100% mine. All mine. Which is a blessing and a curse really. My intention was never to be making these decisions without Bob.

The road to where is paved with good intentions?!

Anyway......my latest quandary is regarding Henry and his education.

Long story short: late summer birthday, decision was made (by me) that he be older rather then younger for his grade, very bright, not very social, in a "bad" class, teacher suggests he test to skip a grade.

What!?!?!? I immediately begin to over analyze, because that is what I do best. I recall a recent conversation about super heroes while I was putting the boys to bed. I asked what they would do with their super power. Henry answered immediately that he would make a classroom just for himself.

"Why? " I asked, preparing myself for some awful story of teasing or bullying.

"So then I could hear the teacher and actually learn something."

Oh dear, that is not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I am glad he wants to learn something........

What should I do? I need help.

What would Bob do?

First of all, he would not over analyze everything, he never over analyzed anything. His favorite words to me were; "Relax, don't worry, it will all work out." Maybe it was the scientist in him but he believed in waiting, collecting more information, not jumping to conclusions. That man had patience!

I, on the other hand, love to jump to conclusions, I hate waiting. Patience is not my strongest quality, it might even be my weakest link, right next to organization. I want a decision made and I want to act on it.

So, what will I do with my latest quandary? I will try to channel Bob and "hear" what he has to tell me, I will feel his patience and understanding of who Henry is and what he needs and I will try to honor that.

I will collect more information, I will wait and see.

I will work on patience.

(and Bob, if you are out there, somewhere in the cosmos, sorry for the swearing. But seriously, if you could send me some of your patience it would be greatly appreciated. It is not as if you need it right now, right?)

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Haiku

2010-01-31T21:25:00.015-06:00

Hey there-

Our church had their annual "Lessons on Loss" this morning during religious education for the children.

Today the teacher asked Henry's class to write a poem about someone, or something, that they had lost. Henry chose the Haiku. With his permission I am sharing some of these below. I think he was excited at the idea of the poems being "published", although when he heard there was no money involved his enthusiasm did wane a bit.

I am very sad

My father passed away

I cry every day

When she said he's dead

I didn't know what to do

I had no idea

She is very sad

My mother mourns away now

She is very sad

I had no idea

So I tried to cheer her up

It did not work well

(that is my personal favorite)

In the past I have approached this series with some trepidation. Mainly because my kids are the only ones in their class to have lost a parent. Most children talk about a pet, maybe a grandparent, and one child mentioned his dead iPod. I kid you not.

Henry proudly marched up to me in the sanctuary to show me his poems. I happened to be talking to the mom of the dead iPod at the time. As I teared up reading Henry's poems I heard her gently remind her child that some people had experienced much more significant losses. Henry seemed unfazed by the difference between the two boys losses and, in fact, told me the story of how the iPod had died on the way home. (it involved a soda and Mentos)

I can learn so much from the children. While I worry and fret about my poor son having to talk about his dad's death while others talk about lost electronics, my son seems to find sympathy for every one's loss, no matter how small.

My lesson for the day was all loss is significant.

But come on.....an iPod?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

PS- I can't seem to make the computer do a space in between each haiku? So you will just have to pretend it is there. Sorry.

Luck

2010-01-20T10:03:00.001-06:00

Hey there-

Yesterday at dinner Mike and I were discussing an event that involved our friend, Bob.

"Who?" Henry asked. "Bob? Our dad is back? He's alive again?"

Of course, he knows the truth, he was just being silly.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" I asked. "He could move back in here with all of us."

Mike chuckled from the other side of the table.

"Your mom could be the first woman polygamist, Henry," he said.

This brought on a very interesting conversation about polygamy that I won't go into now, but it got me thinking.........

What if Bob were to arrive at my doorstep, and I was to discover that his absence the last six years had just been some terrible mistake?

Then what?!

I would be thrilled of course, I can almost feel his arms around me as I type this, and the sound of his voice greeting me; "Hey Sug"

After the shock of seeing me in a house with 5 children wore off I would call for the boys.

"Daddy's home!" I would say, just like I did many times before.

Henry would be shy at first, stare at him with reserved awe, and then want to show Bob his bicycle and how well he can play Othello. Arthur would probably bound into Bob's arms, even though he wouldn't really know who this man was, it might be similar to Santa coming alive in our house for Arthur.

Then Mike would appear at the door to see what all the commotion was about.

hmmmmmm, that is when it gets sticky.

Now what?

Would I run back to Bob and leave everything that Mike and I have built together?

I couldn't do that.

Would I stay with Mike and arrange a visiting schedule for the boys with Bob?

Nope, that doesn't sound good either.

I don't see any of us going for a plural marriage, I can't see Mike and Bob as "brother husbands". And me deciding which door to knock on at night?! ICK! (maybe I have been watching too much Big Love)

How could I decide? Bob is the boys dad, obviously, but they are rather attached to Mike by this point. Mike can even make a better smoothie than me according to Arthur (trader!). Mike never complains about his job but he also doesn't have the summers off like Bob did as a teacher. They both like camping and cooking, although Bob did a lot more of it. Bob never brought me chai in bed, but he made one for me every morning. They both like to travel. Bob was more frugal (which I like) but he never brought me home gifts for no reason. Bob and my wine budget was much less but I do enjoy a good glass of red wine before dinner. Mike is always up for going out with people but, Mike is always up for going out with people.They both put up with me and love me in totally different ways.

Wow, I am glad I won't ever have to decide ......(maybe?).

How lucky am I to have had the chance to love and be loved by two such wonderful men? How lucky am I that, after everything, I still feel lucky?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

2.4

2010-01-07T19:39:00.007-06:00

Hey there-

The boys and I were driving to the store the other day to buy their grandma a puzzle they could all do together.

"Mom, how old was I when you and Mike got married?" Henry asked from the backseat.

"Six, why?"

"I was just wondering how long it took for me to get used to Mike," he responded.

"Get used to Mike?" Arthur asked, his brows furrowed and his little voice rising in confusion. "What does THAT mean?"

Henry went on to explain; "Well, since Daddy was our daddy, I didn't have to get used to him. He just....... was. And since Mike is our step-dad, I had to get used to him." (duh, I could hear him thinking)

"So, you are used to Mike now?" I asked him.

"Yup."

"How long did it take?" I asked as we pulled into the parking lot of the puzzle store.

"About.......two years, and........four months." He nodded his head in satisfaction and opened the door to get out of the car.

Arthur nodded his head too, in disbelief.

"Whatever Henry," he said as he kicked his own door open.

I am still pondering if he is counting 2 years and 4 months from the time Mike and I met, or the time we got married? I wanted to look back at the calender and see what was going on at both of those times. Knowing Henry this time frame was not just pulled out randomly.

Mike and I met in August of 2005 and we married in September of 2006 so, what was going on December of 2007 or January of 2009? Random life it seemed like to me.

Two years and four months to get used to something, hmmmmm.

I, myself, am a big believer of a year for any period of adjustment, like a move or a new job. Getting through all the seasons, the anniversaries and holidays. After that first year the newness wears off, the initial excitement or fog begins to lift and you can begin to settle down and form an educated opinion about the situation with a little more clarity and first hand knowledge.

But a death? And all the changes that come along with it, how long is that adjustment period? There has historically been a magical number of one year for mourning, wearing black and all that. From my own experience I can say it takes much longer than a year, there are still times I want to wear a black arm band.

A wise friend once told me; "It takes how long it takes".

For Henry it took 2 years and 4 months to "get used" to having a step-dad. (he is learning decimals now in school, could explain something)

As for me, Bob has been gone 5 years and 9 months and Mike and I have been married for 3 years and 3 months. I have accepted the situation, grown accustomed to it, love a lot of it, but I will let you know when I have fully adjusted.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

In-laws

2009-12-22T22:06:00.000-06:00

Hey there-

You gotta love in-laws.

Bob's family has become even more important to me since his death.

They are the keepers of the family lore, the remember when, the childhood secrets. When the boys ask if their daddy ever did this or that, they are the only people who have the answers. I can tell them about their dad in his 30's, but that isn't what they want to know right now, maybe when they are 30 something.

They want to know if daddy liked to read when he was nine, if he was good at math, did he ever get a time out in gym in kindergarten, did he like to sing at the Christmas concert?

Ah, the Christmas concert. The concert where Arthur dances his way in, spots his Aunt Kathy and me in the audience, breaks into his million dollar smile and joins the other wildly waving children on the bleachers. The same concert where Henry marches in, eyes down, stands in position, spots us out of the corner of his eye, smiles imperceptibly and gives us the wrist wave. (you know the one, the one where the arm does not move at all, only the wrist)

Arthur smiles while he sings and does all of the carefully rehearsed snowflake movements with a natural rhythm and an Arthur flare, only looking towards his aunt and me about 10 times per song to smile even broader if that is possible. Henry, on the other hand, has his eyes only on the teacher as he sings with zero emotion, seriously, you would have thought he was being lectured to by the police. When the swaying part came (he had expressed concern the day before about the swaying; "No one is going the right way, we are supposed to start on the left and then go right and everyone is going every which way. We are going to be horrible!") most of the children swayed with abandon picking their feet up and bouncing their shoulders. Not Henry, he swayed carefully, first right, then left, no shoulder movement, no feet moving, he was rooted to the spot. This is serious stuff!

Their Aunt Kathy and I watched both boys with the pride only a family member can feel. We laughed and nodded at each other knowingly and appreciated both for their unique approaches to the performance.

"Arthur and I are opposites," Henry said to me on the walk home. "Arthur likes to sing in front of a crowd and I don't. He doesn't get nervous and I do. Which way do you think dad was at his Christmas concerts?"

"That is a good question for your grandma," I told him, making a mental note to ask the next time we saw her.

Of course, she will say Bob was fabulous even if he was the kid who picked his nose or wet his pants or pulled some girls hair. That is how her memories work.

The boys and I recently spent the day with her and the subject of discipline came up. Grandma shocked the boys with tales of her mother making her kneel in the corner if she had been naughty. They particularly enjoyed the story of her mom going to the lilac bush to get a switch to swat her on the butt with if she had been REALLY naughty.

"Did you ever do that to Daddy?" They asked wide eyed and still giggling about their grandma just saying butt.

"Oh no, you couldn't do that any more by the time I had kids, it was out of fashion," she said. "They would have called it child abuse."

"Did you ever make him kneel in a corner?"

"I don't remember ever doing that....."

"What did you do, Grandma, when daddy was naughty?" they asked, dying to know what horrendous punishment their dad had to endure.

"I don't know........I just remember they were all good kids," she said with a smile.

Boring! We want some dirt on daddy here!

Although the look on her face, you almost believed her. (Please be assured that the punishment stories are not the only ones grandma tells of her childhood. She is just as likely to talk about the homemade noodles her mom made for the chicken noodle soup and how much effort her mom put into decorating a beautiful Christmas tree.)

This is all good stuff. For me and the boys. The continued connection with their dad's family, priceless.

I am so grateful to have that person to lean to at the Christmas concert and shake my head and laugh knowingly. Without my sister-in-law there I might look a little too longingly at the couple in front of me as they lean into each other and nod and laugh; "just like his dad" they are saying I am sure. (these couples are always incredibly happy in my mind, perfect for each other in fact, a first marriage of course, everyone is healthy and biologically related, no complications.......)

I could go on and on with stories that point out just how precious this in-law relationship is to both sides. I could write about the trip Henry got to take with his uncle this past summer. The trip that his uncle showed up in his 1959 Triumph and announced to Henry that he had the air mattresses that he and Bob used on their first road trip together when Bob was 16! You just can't make this stuff up!!!

So yes, I love in-laws, wouldn't want to be doing any of this without them. Even those that teach my little boys bad words. But once again, a subject for a different blog.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Bridges

2009-12-11T19:47:00.004-06:00

Hey there-

This is ridiculous.

It is crazy how much I am missing Jake. He was a cat for goodness sake, and an annoying one at that. He ate cellophane and threw up all the time. We couldn't leave any kind of wrapper or ribbon laying around or he would find it and start yakking. Birthdays were a nightmare, I finally had to give up getting balloons.

Jake was quite grouchy too. He had a fake hip from an injury when he was very young. Bob had to hold him down while I did range of motion exercises on his little leg. The poor guy foamed at the mouth trying to get away. I knew Bob really loved me as I watched him calmly hold Jake, this high maintenance cat that had come with me in the relationship, so I could rotate his hip. I believe the hip caused Jake pain in the humid summer time (and the cold winter time). He would spread his rather large body across the kitchen floor on particularly hot days and if you tried to walk around him he would growl and nip at you.

For a while he used to stand at the front door and lunge at anyone who had the audacity to leave the house and leave him inside. I eventually decided to let the de-clawed SOB be an outdoor cat.

Jake also had an amputated tail. Bob came home one day for lunch and found the poor guy hanging by his tail on top of a pile of folded laundry. The piece of wood holding the window of our 1920s duplex had fallen and slammed down on his tail.....ouch!! When he emerged from the folded shirts and pants after being set free his tail was a crooked letter "L".

The story of Jake losing his tail was part of our family lore, the boys and I. I was pregnant with Henry when it happened but you would think he had found Jake suspended in the air by the way he tells the story. And Arthur too, they both love to tell the story of when Jake lost his tail.

"And when dad opened the window Jake went running after Amber (our other cat). She must have been sitting there taunting him the whole time. Ha, ha you got your tail stuck in a window...you can't get out..." Henry will say dramatically, laughing and shaking his head very Boblike.

I had this false idea that since I survived losing my spouse I would be immune to "lesser losses". I know they say (you know, "those people" who say things) that you can't compare grief. "They" also say the most difficult loss is a child first and then a spouse. So a cat has to be rather far down the list.

And yet I find myself mourning Jake. When we decorated the tree this year I commented that we didn't have to worry about ribbons on the presents this year since Jake wouldn't be here to eat them and then vomit. I mentioned it as a silver lining, but the realization made me tear up.

Jake used to sit in between Mike and I on the futon when we watched TV and it always bugged Mike. He would grumble as he moved Jake's decreasing mass out of the way so we could cuddle. So Jake is part of Mike and my lore as well. Jake came with me into Mike and my relationship just like he came with me into Bob and my relationship. Jake was a four legged bridge between my past and my present.

And now he is gone. One more connection washed away. There won't be any reason for Henry to tell his version of the story of when Jake lost his tail anymore, no one will ask. One less tale about Daddy to tell.

I will miss the bridge, the limping, four legged, stub tailed bridge. But I still have two beautiful blue eyed, two legged bridges. One who got a time out in gym class today!!!! But that is a whole other blog.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

One More Day

2009-12-04T15:13:00.006-06:00

Hey there,

We had to put Jake down yesterday. (the 17 year old cat) It was very sad. Worse than I imagined it would be.

It doesn't sound sad does it? We put him down, like you put your child down for a nap. Only it wasn't anything like putting your child down for a nap.

It seemed sudden, although he has been aging rapidly in the last few months. And he was 17 for goodness sake. And, truth be told, I thought I was ready for Jake's demise for years. After Bob died I felt like Jake had outworn his welcome.

Really, that is how I felt.

I kept thinking to myself; "Why is Bob gone and Jake is still here?"

Really, I did.

I had Jake before I met Bob, and then I still had him after Bob was gone. I had Jake longer than I had Bob. I am not sure why that fact has always bothered me. But in the end I guess I had grown fond of the old coot again, and I already miss having him around.

Henry and Arthur were with me at the vet and they took it hard. There was wailing. We even had some folks out in the waiting room in tears. Here is some of what those poor unsuspecting dog owners heard through the door:

"Now Henry, Jake had a long life."

"But I was only a part of it for such a short time"

gasp, sob

"Just like with Daddy"

wail

"I was a part of his life for even shorter!"

more wailing

"I am glad I was so much younger when Daddy died. I didn't know so much of what I was losing. Now I know"

what is another word for wail? keen?

Now Arthur:

"At least I knew Jake......I hardly knew Daddy at aaaallllllllll"

Now we are all crying.

At this point the vet wanted to run screaming from the room I am sure.

This morning I came downstairs and found both the boys getting dressed in their room and crying again.

"I can't believe it," Henry said. "One minute I was laughing about something my teacher did at school and the next minute I was crying because you told me Jake was dying and we had to take him to the vet."

As Henry continued to lament the unpredictability of life, while hopping around and pulling up a pair of Spiderman undies, I thought to myself; "That is kind of how these things work, kid, bummer I know." You can't really prepare yourself in advance for these sorts of things. You can't know that next week your husband will get a cancer diagnosis, or that tomorrow you will get in a car accident.

"I just wish I had one more day," Henry continued.

"Why, babe? What would you do with one more day?" I asked him, truly curious.

"I don't know. It would just be one more day. Don't you want one more day with Daddy?" He looked up at me with those intense blue eyes all waterlogged.

This question caught me off guard, honestly I have never thought about this option. Before I could gather my wits the boys, fully clothed, were off to pour themselves a bowl of Honey Oats. I will never cease being envious of children and their ability to turn grief on and off like a light switch.

But I continued to ponder the question.......and my final answer is no. I would not want one more day with Bob. Especially if it were a continuation of the days we were having before he died, I did not want one more hour of that. Maybe if it could be a day of my choosing, like the day we spent in Brugge, Belgium, before we discovered Bob had forgotten to put film in the camera. Or the day we went camping in the Olympic Rain Forest and it rained (harder than usual) and we spent the entire day in the tent playing backgammon and reading out loud to each other. Or the day I found out I was pregnant with Henry and I was freaking out and Bob just grabbed me around the middle and said; "Renie, this is going to be a riot with you!"

But, no, even if my one more day could be one of our greatest days, my answer is still no. One more day would simply put me back at the beginning of my grief journey. And you could not pay me enough money to be back there. When the movie "Ghost" came out (which was LONG before I met Bob let alone lost him) and Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze have that last dance together and it is supposed to be all romantic, all I could think of was ... Now she will just have to start all over again.

I guess I am not a romantic. I am too damn practical for my own good. If something is over, why drag it out with one more day? Maybe it isn't just practicality but a lack of patience as well. If there is no fixing a problem, I want to be moving beyond it.

So, no Henry, I don't want one more day with your dad.

Now, a lifetime? Totally different story.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Walk It Out Reminder

2009-11-25T11:48:00.003-06:00

Hey there-

I want people to know that I will be at Hart Park on Saturday morning at 9:30am

Holidays can be rough and filling so if you need to Walk It Out, come join me.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

BIMANSHA

2009-11-18T16:42:00.000-06:00

Hey there-

The holidays. Spending time with family.

But.......which family? Whose family? What is family?

Family can be a tricky concept these days, even trickier for those of us who have been widowed.

In Webster's dictionary the first definition listed is a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation. #2 is a group of person's of common ancestry.#3 is a group of individuals living under one roof.

Hmmmmm.....a while after Bob died the boys and I were in the car line waiting to drop Henry off at pre-school. Out of the car in front of us came a mom, a dad, and a child.

"Wow, the whole family is here today," I said to Henry idly.

''We aren't a family anymore," he responded wistfully. "Now that daddy is dead."

Silence..............dead silence.............

The car in front of us pulled ahead, we pulled ahead and it was our turn to get out of the car. The tears standing in my eyes were nothing new to the teachers that year so we made the exchange of Henry without discussion.

After telling my sister-in-law about the incident she bought us The Family Book by Todd Parr....about all different kinds of families. I read it to Henry often and now I read it to Arthur. I still choke up at the part that says....all families are sad when they lose someone they love.......

These days when I read the line.....some families have 2 dads.... Henry always chimes in; "Arthur and I have two dad's. Our dad that is dead and Mike, our step-dad"(I know that is not what they are really referring to in the book people, OK, but it is very cute all the same) and when we get to the part that says......some families have a step-mom Arthur always says; "We won't ever have a step-mom" and then Henry chimes in again; "Yes, we could Arthur, if mom dies and Mike gets married then that woman would be our step-mom." (thanks for that bit of information Henry)

But seriously, if that lovely scenario played out, is that woman indeed their step-mom? Just who is the woman married to your step-dad?

So then there is the question of in-laws. Recently the boys and I went to their aunt's (Bob's sisters) for dinner. On the way home Henry asked why the Hogan's (his step siblings) hadn't come to dinner.

"This is your dad's family, buddy. They aren't really the Hogan's family." I tried to explain weakly.

"Well, then why did YOU come? You should have just dropped me and Arthur off." Henry (of course) said bluntly.

"How do you figure?" I asked, trying to stay amused and not annoyed.

"Well, dad is dead and you were only related to Aunt Jane and Aunt Kathy and Grandma because you were married to him. But we are his children so we are related forever. So why do you still come to Aunt Jane and Aunt Kathy's?"

Yikes!! I am too tired for this.

Webster's definition of an in-law is a relative by marriage.

hmmmmm.....

So then......on Halloween the boys were deep in discussion regarding the difference between dark chocolate and milk chocolate. We all decided we liked milk chocolate much better.

"I guess we are a milk chocolate family," Arthur announced.

"Your dad loved dark chocolate," I said to Arthur as I stood at the sink washing dishes.

"Mom," he said to me with that sing song tone he had to have learned from me, that tone that says you should understand this already, but your young and still learning, so I am going to go over it one more time. "Dad is dead, remember, he isn't part of our family anymore."

Ahhhhhhhhhhh! I am WAY too tired for THIS.

Death is defined as a permanent cessation of all vital functions.

Well that clears it up for me.

Is "family" a "vital function". When a person dies do family ties cease?

I know we aren't living under one roof, not physically anyway, but I still like to think of Bob as part of the family. We have blocks for everyone in our family on our mantel with their initial on one side and their birth statistics on another, and the 'B' starts off the line up. BIMANSHA, that is who we are, too bad we can't fit it on our license plate.

And, despite what Henry might believe, I will always consider Bob's family to be my in-laws.

I think the point is family is anyone you consider family to be. It can't be defined by ancestry, marriage, affiliations or houses. And it doesn't have to be ended by death.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Baggage

2009-11-04T15:28:00.010-06:00

Hey there-

When Mike and I first met many of his friends expressed concern about him dating a widow.

I was insulted, of course. It isn't like I killed the guy. I didn't ask to be a widow or anything.

I understand it was their concern for him regarding the sainted dead spouse syndrome. People worry about the comparison to the dead spouse. Because anyone who has lost anyone they care about knows that you only remember the good stuff. Even the not so good stuff seems SO much better in the remembering.

........remember when we were lost in the woods for hours that one time because Bob insisted we didn't need a flashlight.........man, that was the best!...........

......remember how Bob would cut his fingernails and then leave them in a pile on the arm of the couch...... I loved that, I really miss that.........

It can be difficult being in a relationship with a widow, I admit. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, school conferences, dentist appointments, movies, vacations, dinner........any event seems to hold a memory and a possibility of bittersweet sadness, disappointment, unfulfilled dreams or regret. Even in the middle of true joy and elation these moments can rear their ugly head with no warning.

These moments can last for minutes, hours, or days, there is no predicting grief.

I would still highly recommend a relationship with a widow. We are awesome! We have faced our worst fears and have survived, maybe even thrived. We are independent and creative and insightful. We are wise and thoughtful.

So we might cry randomly, would you prefer we weren't sad about losing our spouse? (that would be totally different baggage to have to deal with) Wouldn't you like to know that if/when something happens to you we will keep your memory alive for those that knew you and for those that never had the chance? Who doesn't want a few pictures of themselves kept around the house after they are gone?

Our spouse died, but our relationship didn't end.

I realize it is hard to understand if you haven't lived it. But wishing someone was still here does not mean wishing someone else wasn't. Nobody is a second choice, just a different choice for a different time.

I believe the key to a successful relationship with a widow is honesty and self confidence, for both parties.

Comparisons are odious a friend once told me (actually told me numerous times....). This saying is true for so many situations. Other peoples relationships, other peoples children, other peoples jobs, houses, parents, yard, car........ Comparing your situation to another persons can be a dangerous game. Comparison can take on a whole new level when you are involved with a widow.

Comparisons are going to happen, you can't stop them, it is human nature, people are different. The key is what you do with them. My general rule is to keep most of them to myself unless they are completely objective;

"Bob's eyes were blue." or "Bob enjoyed biking."

or if they make my live husband look really good;

"I have never had anyone serve me breakfast in bed." or "I love that you cut your fingernails in the bathroom over a garbage can, instead of leaving them in a pile around the house like Bob always used to do."

OK, of course, in a perfect world no one would date anyone who was widowed or divorced or who had any relationship baggage whatsoever and no one would have to hear the name of a former spouse spoken out loud. Since we don't live in a perfect world I am here to tell you that dating a widow isn't all that bad, even if the dead spouse is sainted. The dead spouse never calls during dinner and they have few opinions that differ from those of the live parent.

Pick your poison.

Thanks for checking in -

Irene

Passing Storm

2009-11-02T17:17:00.008-06:00

Hey There-

I hate that Bob died. I hate that I was widowed. I really do.

I can be pragmatic. I can be practical. I know that my life is now and not then and there is no use comparing or wishing.

I can be philosophical and insightful. I am grateful for all the silver linings of the situation, happy with what I have now and rather impressed at times with the person I have become. I really am.
But then Arthur's birthday comes around, just like it does every year, and I feel that kicked in the gut, wind knocked out of me feeling again. I find myself sitting cross legged on Arthur's bunk bed sobbing in the dark into my cupped hands hoping I don't wake the boys up, wondering how long this storm will last.

It must be the proximity of Bob's death and Arthur's birth that does it for me every year. Remembering all the craziness that he was born into. I think Arthur knew he was better off in the womb. He wasn't late but he sure needed coaxing once he began his hesitant appearance, as if he wasn't quite sure he really wanted to be out here among all of the darkness that was our lives at that time. Who could blame him, at least the darkness he was coming from was warm.

Once the storm passes, and it does pass, I make it up to our bedroom and I am sure Mike can tell that I have been crying. But he says nothing. He has learned that is best sometimes. What is there to say? I wish Bob were here to celebrate his son's birthday. I wish the two of us could reminisce about the day Arthur was born. I wish Bob were here to see Arthur dance to Van Halen (long story).

I wish Bob were here.

Grief can't always be shared or explained, it just has to be experienced and lived through.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Quilt

2009-10-20T10:38:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

We all went to my family reunion last week in Connecticut, all seven of us.

The McGoldricks have a reunion every three years and this years was the eighth one. This was the first one for my step-children, the second one for Mike, the first one for Arthur (unless you count the one when I was pregnant with him), the fourth one for Henry, and the seventh one for me. Bob attended three.

Each reunion is in a different place and hosted by a different family member but many traditions stay the same. The family photo when everyone turns around so we can get a picture of the back of the reunion T-shirt, card playing (our game is Setback), one nice family dinner that everyone attends, a poem from my dad at the end of the weekend (he is not really a poet but they always rhyme) and the photo albums from reunions past.

Six years ago we were in the San Juan Islands. Henry was about to turn three, I was pregnant, and Bob had just finished a chemo treatment less than 24 hours before we got on the plane. When the announcement of Italy as the next destination was made on the last evening I wondered if Bob would be there with us. Would Bob be healthy, sick, or would I be there alone with the boys?

Mike came with me and Henry to Italy three years ago. Surprisingly, that had never been an option I had entertained at the time.

Looking at the photo albums last weekend it looked as if I had a seamless transition. One reunion I was standing next to Bob and the next reunion I was standing next to Mike. How crazy is that? One year I posed with one child and the next year I posed with five.

A picture doesn't tell the whole stroy does it? It is a moment in time.

Anyone who knew me during those three years knows the transition was anything but seamless. Those years had jagged edges and there was a lot of ripping out of stitches and lots of tears. (you can decide which way to pronounce that)

I like to think of the person I am now as a quilt. A quilt takes time, hard work, and patience to make. It may look haphazard and unattractive at times. A person can get tired and sore and feel like giving up the project. It may seem like more pieces are being taken away than being sewn back in. But in the end it all seems to work somehow.

I am patched back together now. Some pieces of me are old and some are new. Some pieces go together well and some need to be seperated by other pieces in order to work. Some pieces were put in place and then ripped out and put back in a different place. Some pieces didn't make the quilt in the end but were important to the construction of it. All the pieces are important to the whole.

I don't know what is in store for me in the next three years. I can't imagine the pieces that are being formed at this moment for my next quilt.

All I know is that for now my quilt is comfortable and warm and beautifully patched together.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Circumstances

2009-10-02T09:58:00.001-05:00

Hey there,

I have a friend.

I adore her.

Whenever we are together we talk nonstop, there is never enough time to say all that there is to say to each other. I feel like I have known her all my life. I think we may have been related in another life. I can't imagine what I did before I knew her.

And I never would have met her if Bob were still alive, and that is hard to reconcile at times.

She is a "new friend". That is the term I use for friends I have met since Bob died. People who know the woman I am today, the person I have become after clawing my way out of the depths of grief.

But they are missing a significant piece to my puzzle.

They can listen with interest, compassion and maybe a bit of awe to my stories of stem cell transplants and growing tumors and nursing infants and weeks of instant oatmeal for dinner. But they weren't with me. They weren't there to have me to dinner for the fifth time that week even though our children always ended up fighting, or to come over and organize my Tupperware drawer with a stack of tissues in hand, or to put their own grief and fear aside and stand beside me as the undertakers took Bob out the front door, or to listen, once again, to my lamenting about the injustice of my situation.

There was a time when all I wanted was to meet new people. I was desperate to meet people who did not know Bob and who did not see the big "W" on my forehead. I was tired of being defined by my circumstances. But when I began to meet these new friends I resented the fact that they did not understand my situation, they could not tell I was widowed just by looking at me, they did not understand what I had lost, what I had been through.

How could they really know me and not know Bob?

I found myself wanting to explain my situation, wanting them to know who I was when I was with Bob. It turned out I didn't want to escape my circumstances, I wanted to embrace them. I wanted to incorporate my whole story into this new person that I was becoming. This new person with new friends and old friends, all of whom have circumstances of their own that have made them who they are.

I am grateful for all the people in my life, new friends, old friends, live husbands, late husbands, in-laws, family, neighbors, children, step-children. No matter how or why I met them, I am grateful for them all. I am grateful that they know me and love me for who I am today.

We are all who we are because of our circumstances, maybe even despite our circumstances.

I can be changed by what happens to me.

But I won't be reduced by it.

Maya Angelou

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Henry Stare

2009-09-25T17:17:00.003-05:00

"You can't leave me Bob. I can't do this without you. What am I going to do? I don't want to lose you," I pleaded with him, choking and gasping for breath.

Bob stayed right there in front of me as if he was trying to keep me from falling apart, limb by limb, right there in the living room. He didn't say a word, just remained there with me, hands firmly on me thighs, a solid presence.

I don't know how long I carried on. It might have been quite a while or maybe just a moment. Slowly unfolding from the fetal position, coming back to my surroundings, my breathing slowing down, I looked around the room. My eyes landed on Henry on the other side of coffee table, quietly standing there in the dark corner absorbing the entire scene, giving us the wide eyed Henry Stare. That look he had in his eye that made you think he could see more than just what was in the room.

"Hey, Bud, do you want to watch Blues Clues?" I asked stupidly, attempting to distract him from this ugly scene. He was not a child who was easy to distract. He had straight forward questions that we answered as honestly as we could.

He knew daddy was sick and the doctors were trying to make him better. He knew the "straw" in daddy's arm was how the medicine got in. He knew that because of that straw Daddy was unable to go swimming with him this summer. He knew that the blood cancer Daddy had was so bad that the medicine they had to give him made him feel even sicker and made his hair fall out. He knew he was staying with his aunts more often so that Mommy and Daddy could go to doctor appointments. He knew Mommy was having a baby.

He knew a lot, he knew way more than any three year old should have to know. And now he knew that his mommy was terrified and that Daddy could get lost. How much more would he have to know before this was all done I wondered?

Pride

2009-09-18T09:05:00.006-05:00

Hey there-

It happened again.

Henry and I were in line at Noodles and we began chatting with an older gentlemen in front of us about one thing and another. The man asked Henry if he was a Packer fan. Henry stared at him blankly and shook his head slowly. I quickly explained that we weren't against the Packers or anything (I didn't want things to get ugly right there at the neighborhood Noodles), but that we just weren't a football family.

The man nodded and smiled like you would to a crazy person on the street singing show tunes at the top of their lungs and dragging on the stub of a cigarette.

"My step-dad is a Packer fan, he watches football," Henry chimed in, noticing the uncomfortable silence.

And that was when it happened. I got the look, the "Oh, I see" look.

Real or imagined, I can't be sure, but it is distinctly different from the "Oh, I understand" look.

After Bob died it took me about one week to discover that there was much more sympathy for a widowed person than a divorced person in our society. Divorce implies choice. And I will admit I was not above playing the widow card from time to time if it meant a little more assistance in a time of need.

Why do I bristle at the word step-dad? My boys don't. I find myself wanting people to know why they have one. As if to say; "This wasn't what I wanted, this wasn't my plan, this wasn't my fault."

I doubt anyone who has children goes into it wanting them to have a step-dad. I don't believe prospective parents sit around planning this outcome.

"OK, here is the plan. I have always wanted my kids to have a step-dad, so we should have a few kids and then we will get divorced and then you can get remarried so our kids can have a step-dad. Or this, we can have a few kids and I can get sick and die and then you can get remarried and they can have a step-dad. That would be great!"

I don't think so.

For whatever reason many children end up with a step-parent, it is not shameful. I never planned on it, I never wanted it. This was not my dream for my children.

But I am extremely grateful they do have a step-dad, especially one that likes my boys and likes Bob's family and honors Bob's memory and his continued importance in our life. The next time the subject comes up I will use the word with pride, just as Henry and Arthur do. No explanation needed.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Imagine

2009-09-09T14:26:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

Bob and I never texted each other.

We never spoke to each other from our cell phones. We never emailed each other from work, we never emailed each other period, or Facebooked. There was no Twittering......OK, maybe there was some twittering.......

Bob never even heard of a blog.

What DID we do?

We walked together and rode bikes. We planned trips. Bob cooked while I put flowers on the table. We played Scrabble and read books in the living room with steaming cups of tea between us. We debated the existence of God. Bob wrote in a journal (actually putting pen to paper) and I concocted different recipes with my essential oils. We spooned on the couch and watched "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". He read a book while I folded clothes. He took Henry grocery shopping. We gave each other massages.

I am glad there was no Internet or cell phones or Facebook when we courted. A few days after our first date I went to the laundry mat. I had told Bob the night before that I was thinking of doing my laundry that day. As I was pulling out of the parking lot onto the street with my clean clothes balanced precariously on the seat next to me Bob flew past my car on his bike. He made a quick U-turn and approached me with a big smile on his face.

"You weren't at home when I called so I thought I would ride by and see if you needed company," he said, my heart skipped a beat.

A few days later I was at work and he appeared during my lunch hour to take me on a motorcycle ride to the lake. We hopped on the bike and I wrapped my arms around his chest and lay my cheek on his back (to protect myself from the brisk Oct. air...)

What if he could of just texted me while I did my laundry? I would have missed how his face looked that day when I saw him do that U-turn on the street, bright with anticipation. What if he had called me on my cell phone at work and asked if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle? Would I have said yes or would I have been cautious and said there probably wasn't enough time. And I would have missed the exhilaration of being on that bike with him on that clear fall day, even if it was just a few minutes.

What if Bob had blogged instead of writing in a journal? I wouldn't have had the peaceful comfort of him sitting next to me in contemplation, pen in hand, notebook open on his lap, music on in the background. I wouldn't have his penmanship to look at today. The way he slanted his "S" and put a big curve at the bottom of his "g". Seeing the unique way he wrote on the page seems to bring the story to life somehow.

What would our relationship be like today if he were still alive, what would our communication be like? Granted, we were not people on the cutting edge of technology but so much has changed with technology in such a short time.

Would we email each other from work about what to have for dinner or who was going to pick up the boys or what we should do for the weekend? Would he text me from some biking trip he was on to tell me about the sunset? Would he forward me silly political cartoons? If we were out to dinner and his phone rang would he answer it? Would he have a Facebook page? Would he spend the evening on Google finding out answers to the boys never ending questions? Would he be fighting with the boys for computer time? Would he be a follower on any blogs?

I honestly can't imagine Bob doing any of these things. I can't imagine him choosing the computer over a bike ride in the evening. I can't imagine him going to the computer for a recipe and not thumbing threw one of his cookbooks. I can't imagine his phone ringing during dinner. Sometimes I think he got out of here just in time. Sometimes I wish I did. (like when I have to place an egg timer at the computer to limit the amount of time the children are on it, or when I watch a group of kids walking down my street and they all have there heads down, looking at their phone, not interacting at all with the people right next to them)

I will never know the answer to my questions, of course. I can only try to imagine, and remember how it was, and be grateful we had each other when we did, and that our relationship was the way it was.

I must move forward in the world today, technology and all.

But all of this musing begs the question, if Bob were alive today would he read my blog?

If Bob were alive today what would I be blogging about?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

A Smooth Ride

2009-08-28T13:14:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

In my last post I mentioned that my mantra while I was doing a little off road biking recently was "look where you WANT to go".

I learned this useful phrase the first time I ever did any kind of mountain biking. I was with my best friend, who was an experienced mountain biker (and WAY braver than me), in the mountains of Colorado. I had no helmet and the words of my mother as we parted following my graduation from college the day before were ringing in my unprotected head.

"Don't forget to get health insurance". I think she was a little excited to have just completed the task of successfully raising and educating seven children.

As I attempted to make it down the steep trail full of rocks and roots my friend kept telling me to look where I wanted to go, not at what I was trying to avoid, and the bike would follow. Try as I might I just kept staring right at those mini-boulders in my way, mentally pleading for them to remove themselves from my path, and sure enough I ran smack into most of them.

Once we successfully, and slowly, made it to a paved trail I vowed never to go mountain biking again. I am quite certain that my friend also vowed never to take me mountain biking again.

While I have never returned to the mountains of Colorado to do any biking I did find myself doing the occasional off-road trail with Bob here in the Midwest, and now with my boys. But I admit, I still prefer a paved trail, a smooth ride through a shaded overhang of trees, past farmlands and lazy rivers.

What does this fact say about me and how I proceed with my life?

I prefer a smooth ride, it's true. I like when things work out according to plan. I like when events start on time and people live up to my expectations. I like when my checkbook balances and my children do their chores without a fuss. I like when couples happily grow old together and when people live to a ripe old age and die quietly in their sleep.

I like when there are no boulders or roots in my way.

But, inevitably, there things that happen that put a kink in the plans. Even paved trails have their twists and turns, the occasional stone in the way. Sometimes husbands die before they reach a ripe old age. And those plans of growing old together don't come to fruition, no matter how carefully I planned.

So now what?

I can't will the boulder away by staring at it; but I can look where I want to go, be brave and continue on the path, move beyond the boulder, and look beyond the next one as well.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Grief Sucks

2009-08-22T22:08:00.001-05:00

Hey there,

You know what?

Grief sucks!

Bob died 5 1/2 years ago. And here I am, going along; I love where I live, I love who I live with, I love what I am doing, and yet the thought that I will never talk to Bob again, never hear his voice, can still take my breath away.

Literally.

I recently took all three boys camping with a girlfriend and her two boys. Camping was one of those things, like biking, that I was afraid I would never do after Bob died. Bob was always the motivator and organizer of our camping trips. My contribution was to carry all of the sleeping bags, the tent and the bins packed with camping "essentials" to the car so Bob could pack it all up.

I was about as much help once we got to the camp ground. My idea of appropriate camping food is whatever comes out of a box and doesn't require a dish that needs to be washed. Bob enjoyed making elaborate meals while camping, involving the whipping of eggs and the need for things like buttermilk and cumin.

I could never live up to all that.

I feared the boys would not grow up knowing the joys of camping. No sleeping in tents listening to the cicada's sing, no starting fires in the morning and sitting around the fire at night roasting marshmallows, no wishing on the first star to come out, no catching frogs outside the outhouse.

No great outdoors.

It took me over a year to figure out that I didn't need to cook full course meals to give my boys the great outdoors. I could camp without buttermilk and fresh eggs and Idaho potatoes. I could camp "Irene McGoldrick style". Grab a box of cereal and some Poptarts, stick a brat on a stick, cook it over the fire, and call it a day.

That I can do.

And that is what I did, until I met Mike, who likes the more complicated meals around the campfire. So now I am back to my "carry out the sleeping bags and tent and place them by the car for packing" routine.

But this past trip was just my girlfriend and I and we took the boys off road biking for an afternoon. We found ourselves following the boys as they negotiated the trail with different levels of enthusiasm and skill. We tried to warn the serious riders as they blew by us about the 5 young children up ahead strewn about the trail. Only 2 of our group ran into a tree (one was me thank you very much) and Arthur got pushed down a small ravine in an attempt to keep him from getting run over by one of the aforementioned expert riders.

On one of the more level parts of the trail I had a moment to think (in between my mantra of "look where you WANT to go, look where you WANT to go") about how proud I was to find myself in this situation right now. I felt good. A cool bike trail, a fabulous camping weekend, the boys having a great time in the great outdoors.

There was a time I couldn't even imagine being able to put the bike rack on the car.

"Look at us, Bob," I thought to myself. "Look where we are, look at our boys ride this trail."

That's when it happened.

The realization that Bob and I won't ever admire these beautiful blond haired boys we created. We won't stand shoulder to shoulder, leaning towards each other, watching in awe as our children learn a new skill or discover a new fact about their world. This realization felt like a tree branch had just run into my ribcage, my breath came shorter. (it could have been the biking, we were going up a hill by this point) But then, there were tears.

Damn it, and I was having such a good time.

When will it end? The grieving, shouldn't I be done with it by now?!

Man, grief sucks! It really does. It is hard work, and anyone that tells you it just takes time is mistaken. It takes courage and perseverance and resilence and patience. Patience!

By the time we were back at the cars loading up the bikes, the kids hopping around excitedly reliving their "near death" experiences and munching on pretzles dipped in Nutella, I had come to another realization.

There is something worse than grief. Having never had anyone worth grieving for, that would be worse.

Now that would really suck.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Walk It Out Reminder

2009-08-18T11:45:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

Walk It Out will be happening this Saturday August 22nd, 2009.

Come walk and talk.

The weather should be gorgeous and the construction almost complete.

I will see you at 9:30am at the Hart Park Senior Center parking lot.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Sun Room

2009-08-11T08:51:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

Yesterday would have been Bob and my 13th wedding anniversary.

What was most remarkable about yesterday was that no one remarked on it. I say this not to make anybody feel bad, I have always felt that anniversaries are for the couple and not for anyone else to remember, but simply to make an observation. Of course, I did tell Henry and Arthur what the day was.

"Oh, wow," was Henry's response. I give him credit for trying.

On the first anniversary after Bob died I went out to dinner with my parents and some friends. When I returned to my new home, with boxes still unpacked, I sat in the big chair in the sun room and opened an incredibly thoughtful gift from one of my friends. She had stolen the newspaper clipping of the recipe for "Portuguese Fisherman's Stew", the last meal Bob made for friends before he became too sick to cook, and she had it framed.

Sitting in the sun room staring at that recipe I wept imagining Bob standing at the stove stirring the bubbling stew with one hand and studying that slip of newspaper in the other. I suddenly found myself in a panic because I could not remember the sound of his voice.

It had only been 5 months and I had already forgotten the sound of his voice?! How long until I couldn't remember what he looked like , or what it felt like when he held me?

Thankfully, I think that one night was just a temporary freak out. Five years later I am sitting in that same sun room in the same big chair and I am able to hear the sound of his gentle voice; "Happy anniversary, sug." (short for "sugar")

And I remember clearly how it felt to kiss him 13 years ago on that bright sunny day, when our whole lives were in front of us and anything was possible.

Anything...........

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Grapes

2009-08-08T15:45:00.002-05:00

After arriving home, smelling like suntan lotion and sand, Bob suddenly realized that he was supposed to be fasting for the surgery he had scheduled later that day. Knocking his head like a V8 commercial he casually chastised himself for the mistake of eating grapes down at the park.

“Are you sabotaging your recovery, Bob? What were you thinking?” I yelled at him while marching around the kitchen, flailing my arms wildly.

“I didn’t think about it. Willy just handed me some grapes. I took some grapes.” Bob explained, shrugging his shoulders, eyes innocent, head tilted to one side, arms out in an “oh well” kind of expression. He appeared bemused by my “overreaction”.

“Now what are we supposed to do?” I screeched, frantic. My own eyes shooting daggers across the counter. I could have sliced that tumor out myself.

It was the Friday before Memorial Day and now we had to wait over the entire holiday weekend because you can’t get these procedures done on weekends or holidays.

“Cancer doesn’t grow on the weekends,” as my sister Teri said.

Oh, how I wish that were true. At this point you could literally see the tumor get bigger by the day. It was horrifying. Once the biopsy finally was done we would have to wait again for the results and then wait again for the doctor to make her determination. Wait, wait, wait, I couldn’t wait.

“Just don’t tell them.” I suggested in a burst of desperation. “Just go, what are they going to do?”

It was just a couple of grapes, they are mostly water, I reasoned. I wanted Bob to get that offensive growth biopsied NOW.

I stood in the kitchen, defiant, arms crossed, listening to him on the phone with the nurse. He mentioned the grapes, he nodded his head wordlessly and then I heard the word Tuesday. Grabbing my purse off the counter, I turned on my heel and headed for the garage. The sound of the screen door slamming was not nearly enough to drown my screams.

Golden Years

2009-07-27T14:04:00.008-05:00

Hey there-

The first year after Bob died was tough.

I guess that goes without saying, huh?!

Frequently, I felt overwhelmed with the needs of Arthur and Henry (1and 4). In the evenings after the boys were asleep I would vent to my sister, Kathy. During these phone conversations I was usually elbow deep in soap suds with the phone clutched between my cheek and shoulder, often I was whining about all the things I had to do before I could go to bed. The "to-do" list stretched in front of me like a vast dreary landscape.

"Just go to bed," she would tell me. "Get some sleep."

"I can't," I responded, incredulous at the mere idea. "It's not as if anyone is going to do this stuff for us while we sleep."

The thought of getting up in the morning to a kitchen full of dirty dishes, no clean sippy cups, lunches that still needed to be packed, and a full laundry basket was enough to keep me on task.

Waking up behind the eight ball, the "to-do" list from yesterday still before me, and the current day quickly racking up more tasks to add to that list, was enough to put me over the very precarious edge I hovered on. My sanity felt very thin, a full sink of dishes in the morning might be all it took for those last threads to unravel.

A little OCD is common when grieving. It is an attempt to find order and control when one has just been taught the biggest lesson of all; control is an illusion.

I perseverated on wanting my kids to be 4 and 7. For whatever reason 4 and 7 sounded really good to me, there would be more order somehow. They would both be dressing themselves and going to the bathroom on their own. There would be school and a chore list, Henry could surely take out the garbage for me when he was seven. What age can they mow the lawn and shovel, anyway?!

"Hang in there, Irene." Kathy repeated encouragingly, a hint of pity in her voice."You have some good years ahead with the kids, the grade school years, some really golden years. The boys will be more independent and not surly yet."

That first summer the three of us went to Door County for a few days to stay with a high school girlfriend at her family's lake "cottage". Door County is a beautiful peninsula about 3 hours north of Milwaukee that juts out into Lake Michigan.

We gals were busy with the organized chaos of nursing and making bottles, putting kids in high chairs to spoon feed mashed peas in their mouth, putting kids down for naps, trying to make sure they kept rocks out of their mouths and didn't disappear to the other side of the dunes. At night, exhausted, swinging on the porch swing and listening to the calming waves of lake Michigan I wished those golden years would hurry up.

Well, 4 and 7 are gone and the golden years are definitely in full swing!! The boys and I just spent an idyllic 3 days with my girlfriend and her family back at the "cottage". This time we gals read books in our beach chairs and swung in the hammock while the 2 youngest (5) played school and the older boys (7, 9 & 10) took sleds and shovels to the beach and were down there for hours, unattended and no intervention needed. Kayaking and sailing were on the agenda instead of petting zoos and disgustingly early McDonald's runs to keep your early bird from waking the rest of the house.

At night the happy, tired, sun kissed and sand laden children ate plates of noodles and tacos with their own hands while the adults ate on the porch with a lit candle as the sun set giving the clouds over the lake an orange hue.

Fully sugared up with s'mores the kids immediately fell asleep in sandy beds and slept late, waking up smelling of fire and coconut sunscreen and ready to do it all again. Not a surly one in the bunch!

Ah, the golden years," I thought to myself as I sat on the porch swing and watched the boys launch themselves over the dunes on a plastic sled they dragged from the garage. It is still organized chaos, but I seem to be able to find more calm within the storm these days.

I still can't go to bed without the kitchen cleaned and the house in some kind of order, an affect of intense grief, the lingering knowledge that we really control nothing but our reactions to a situation. But I will occasionally leave the laundry to fold for the next day, secure in the knowledge that it will get done eventually. (and sometimes by someone other then me)

A sign of improvement surely!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Walk It Out Reminder

2009-07-24T09:24:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

Walk It Out will be happening this Saturday July 25th at 9:30am starting at the Hart Park Senior Center.

I have lots to share about the conference I attended in San Diego.

Hope to see you all there.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Conference

2009-07-14T17:13:00.004-05:00

Hey there-

I will be attending a conference on widowhood this weekend in San Diego.

Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation is having a conference and they are expecting 300 widow/ers to attend.

WOW!

There are a lot of us out there. Every widow/er changed in ways they could have never imagined.

I will be offering my lotion and oil blend of five different essential oils, all of them chosen for their powerful benefits for symptoms of grief. Essential oils helped me through the worst of my grieving and I am happy to share my knowledge and love of essential oils.

I would have never chosen this path of widowhood, and yet I find myself on it. I am proud to have embraced the opportunity and made the best of it.

I am looking forward to an inspiring weekend.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Fantastic

2009-07-09T09:53:00.001-05:00

Hey there-

The boys and I were invited to a dinner party the other day.

It was a group of young widows who have been getting together for a couple of years for support and friendship.

"They are a group of women whose husbands have died," I explained to Henry and Arthur at breakfast. ".....like Daddy."

"They are all widows," Henry responded.

"Yes, they are all widows," I agreed.

"What do you call a husband whose wife died?"

"A widower," I told him.

Henry nodded silently and returned to his Cocoa Bumpers and comics. I returned to my Dear Abby and chai.

After a few minutes of contemplation Henry looked up from his bowl.

"What are we called, Arthur and me?"

Good question. We decided they couldn't be orphans because they still have me and don't have to live in an orphanage. (although sometimes they act like I make them eat gruel) But what are they? What is their label? How do they explain the situation in a word?

The three of us couldn't come up with anything. We went on about our day and I forgot about the conversation, but Henry didn't.

We drove to the party later that day with Arthur giving us his usual constant commentary. Henry suddenly piped up from the back seat.

"The Fantastic Fatherless, that's what we are."

I like that he put the word fantastic in the label. I could think of other words; strong, insightful, sensitive, wise.

Fantastic, I love it!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Finality

2009-06-30T19:49:00.006-05:00

Hey there-

Mike's dad died on Thursday, June 25th.

Arthur was playing in the front yard with a tennis ball and a baseball glove when I told him that I had to go to the hospital because Mike's dad was going to die.

He looked up at me with those sensitive blue eyes of his, eyebrows crinkled, and I thought he might cry.

"Mike's dad is going to die?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded simply, trying to meet his open gaze.

"....My dad died too. .......That is sad," he said wistfully, as if he were harking back to the days of yore when his own dad died. "Mike will need a hug when he gets home."

Then he promptly went back to his tennis ball and continued with whatever game he had invented that day.

Mike's dad would have been 80 in December, Arthur's dad died 4 days before his 40th birthday. Mike is 46, Arthur was 5 months. Two completely different situations but a common bond all the same, losing a father.

I was recently invited to a dinner for a group of widows here in my neighborhood. This group has been meeting for a couple of years and I am honored to be included. I was telling a friend (non-widow) about the group and how excited I was to be asked, especially since I am not officially a widow anymore.

She thought that being a widow was something like being a veteran, we may not be fighting the same war any longer, but we still have a common bond, just like Arthur and Mike.

All loss is different and nobody grieves the same way, but there are similarities. Anyone who lives long enough will be a veteran of the grieving war. No matter who you lose or when it happens there is a common thread, the finality of death.

I think Arthur said it best.........it is sad, and everyone should get a hug.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Walk It Out Reminder

2009-06-24T09:55:00.007-05:00

Hey there walkers!

A reminder that Walk It Out is happening this Saturday June 27th at 9:30am.

I look forward to seeing you all at the Hart Park Senior Center parking lot.

Should be a nice day! Yea!

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Hawk

2009-06-23T10:55:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

I saw Bob the other day.

No, that is not a typo, I saw Bob.

Our neighbor started a mountain bike club with a group of kids from our block. The first night the Woodchuckers were to meet I was lingering in the front yard chatting with the gals when Henry slowly rolled down the driveway and appeared from behind the neighbors SUV. He had on his new blue helmet, a pair of riding gloves and was riding a borrowed bike with gears.

And there, for just an instant, was Bob. Perched high and proud on his bike and decked out in his riding garb, a gentle smile on his lips. My heart jumped to my throat.

And then Henry was back, trying, for all the world, to look like he didn’t think he was cool.

Stunned into silence by my vision I eventually spit out; “I wish your dad could see you right now.”

Trying to regain my composure I watched as the group rode down the sidewalk and turned towards the park. They all looked a bit blurry from the tears brimming in my eyes.

It was then I heard my neighbor tell her young son to look up, look up above the trees. There was a hawk slowly gliding in a big lazy circle above our street.

“I knew it was you,” I thought to myself as I squinted at the lone bird. “Good, so you do get to see Henry tonight.”

Many of you may know that I believe Bob visits me as a hawk. Bob loved hawks and always pointed them out to me when he spotted one. Soon after he died I started spotting hawks myself. They would appear just when I needed to talk to Bob about something or was hoping for an answer to a question, or needed a little extra help to get through a particularly difficult moment.

These sightings always leave me with a feeling of calm and confidence, the same kind of grounded feeling that Bob provided me when he was walking beside me here on earth.

Bob can’t stand beside me anymore, we can no longer lean against each other and stare in awe and wonder at the beautiful boy we created, marveling at him all geared up for his first mountain bike outing. But he still offers me support and comfort, silently gliding above us, wings outstretched.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Shuddering

2009-06-11T09:38:00.001-05:00

Things were not going according to plan. The stem cell transplant was the new plan, and it wasn’t the first revision to the original plan. We were only four months into this cancer thing and I was exhausted already.

We had about three, maybe six, good weeks following his initial diagnosis on March 21, 2003. All the tumors went away. Bob was pain free and his energy was better than it had been in months. He had a little spring in his step again, nothing short of miraculous.

“I feel like we have gotten off easy,” Bob said one night as we were turning out the lights.

“Shhhhh, don’t say that, you will tempt the fates,” I replied quickly, shuddering as I felt the secret whisper to me again.

“Not so quickly,” it said chillingly.

Clarity

2009-06-03T09:35:00.008-05:00

Hey there-

I was so annoyed yesterday I thought I might spontaneously combust right in my car while I was driving Henry to his soccer game.

It all started when I was summoned out of bed by my five year old, Arthur, yelling “Mom!” repeatedly from his bedroom. By his calls I imagined something involving either blood or vomit but what I found was his brother Henry “annoying him” by staring at him over the boards of his bunk bed.

Apparently Henry had been thrown off when he went out to have his breakfast cereal and found someone he didn’t know sitting in HIS seat at the dining room table (step-sister, Aubrey, had a friend spend the night) and his solution to this was to wake Arthur up and proceed to stare at him. According to Henry it is more embarrassing to introduce himself to the “stranger” and ask her name than to cause a scene by annoying everyone in the house at 7:30 on a Sunday morning.

The day quickly deteriorated from there when I had a cold shower due to the fact that I had to switch a load of laundry which put me in line for the shower behind my step daughter, Natalie, who takes the longest showers known to man.

After my extremely brief shower, where I only performed the bare minimum in hygiene maintenance, I began to pack for a two day business trip when Henry appeared at my bedroom grief stricken.

“Mom, I’ve got my cleats and my shin guards and my water bottle and my ball but I bet you didn’t clean my soccer uniform from yesterday, did you? I don’t want to wear the same one from yesterday, that’s gross,” he announced mortified and dejected at the same time.

“Excuse me?” I retorted. “Excuse me!?!?!? Of course I took the time to wash your soccer uniform last night after we got back from your Aunt Jane’s birthday party, thank you very much. And I had a cold shower this morning just so it would be dry!”

What kind of eight year old boy cares about wearing a dirty soccer uniform anyway?

After all this I was quite proud of myself that we were actually getting in the car early enough to drop Natalie off at her friend’s house before the game , AND stop at the library to return the movies that were due the next day, when I discovered I was missing something……..Arthur.

Where the hell was Arthur?

Henry and Sam thought maybe in the ravine behind our house. Nope. Our neighbor thought maybe he and his son were together in the ravine down the block. Nope. Maybe the basement? Nope. Maybe the new neighbor’s yard? (after all they do have Battter, Batter Baseball) Nope.

The two hooligans were finally located, after much yelling up and down the block, in the backyard of another neighbor, who weren’t even home at the time.

Evidently when Arthur is told we are leaving in five minutes he takes that to mean it is time to go play in the neighbors sand box.

“Well, I didn’t know how long five minutes was, Mom, sometimes it can seem pretty long,” he told me, completely unfazed by the now apoplectic brother and mother who are crazy people when it comes to being prompt.

From now on I will be more specific with my instructions when I give the five minute warning.

“Don’t leave this property!” should suffice.

We were on track to be only a few minutes late until I missed the street for Natalie’s friend’s house due to construction. It appears that when there is construction in this town they remove any and all identifying street signs and just make people guess where they are amidst the rubble, orange cones and yellow construction tape.

After realizing I had gone too far I totally freaked Henry out by pulling a U-turn.

“Mom, why did you just turn around in the middle of the street?” (It was completely legal I assure you)

At this point I was taking deep breaths and doing self talk, trying to remind myself this is just a soccer game after all, it isn’t as if I was going to be late for brain surgery. My finger drumming on the steering wheel gave away my attempt at a calm demeanor.

I slowed down the car in the middle of the construction site to let Natalie jump out of the car and pulled another U-turn (again, perfectly legal) to high tail it back to the soccer field.

At this point Henry was lecturing Arthur about the importance of being timely and if he would just listen when mom said it was time to go then mom wouldn’t have to be driving illegally and probably get arrested.

“Do you want Mom to be arrested, Arthur?” (I am telling you those U-turns were SO legal!)

We made it to the soccer game just as the game was starting. (they lost horribly, probably because their "star" goalie was all discombobulated by the late arrival)

We got back home and I got on the road, where I had four hours in a car by myself to think about all the antics of the day. (never a good thing)

Driving by some rocky cliffs surrounded by bushy green trees I was reminded of living in Oregon and Bob and I driving through the Columbia River Gorge for the first time. I had a pang of longing for those early years when Bob and I had all that freedom and adventure, our calender was not set to soccer games and other peoples social lives.

On occasion, I even miss the days when Bob was dying and the days and months after he died.

I miss the clarity that grief affords you, your priorities are so clear; there is no time for petty grievances when you are dealing with the biggest grievance of them all.

Annoying siblings, cold showers, dirty soccer uniforms, running late?

Who cares? My husband just died.

Soon after Bob died I began what I called a success journal. Every night after the boys were asleep I sat down and wrote a list of all the events I considered a success that day. The first few entries were rather slim, consisting of the bare minimum of existence, the boys were alive and safe in their beds and I had fed them.

We are all so busy, rushing off to somewhere to accomplish something.

What does it all boil down to at the end of the day?

Are we fed and safe in our beds? The rest is just gravy.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Boundless

2009-05-20T09:35:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

I want to tell you a story.

One day, some time after Bob died and before I met Mike, I was walking through the hallway of the assisted living where I worked, pushing the wheelchair of one of our participants of the day center to her beauty shop appointment. There was a spry elderly lady in a blue cardigan sweater opening the door to her apartment. I noticed she had a hyphenated name above her door.

I asked her about this because it is unusual for someone of that generation to have a hyphenated name.

"I had two husbands and I loved them both," was her answer, a broad open smile on her face.

I started crying right there in the middle of the hallway with my hands gripping the wheelchair for balance.

I knew that was what I wanted my story to be.

When people ask me how I can love Mike and still love Bob I always think of that woman and her broad smile. It is not a competition, the heart's limits are boundless.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Einstein

2009-05-14T09:15:00.000-05:00

Hey there-

Albert Einstein was one of Bob's heroes.

We have an enormous poster of the man hanging in our basement. His grey wiry hair, bushy mustache, and intense eyes staring out at us.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge" is the quote at the bottom of the poster. Bob hung the poster in his bicycle workshop for inspiration. After my "Momentum" piece Mike found another quote from Einstein.

"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving."

Coincidence? I think not.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Bobbing and Dipping

2009-05-06T10:51:00.003-05:00

“My husband has lymphoma!” I wanted to shout from the rooftops, I was so elated. It was the least of all the evils; it was the option I had hoped for.

Bob had just told me the news as we walked back home from dropping Henry off at day care. The early spring air felt cool and moist and smelled like earth freshly turned.

“Wait, when did you find out? How long have you known?” I inquired, suddenly suspicious.

“Yesterday,” he stated.

“You knew this yesterday!?” I couldn’t believe it.

For Bob, lymphoma had not been the news he was hoping for. It wasn’t good news for him. Trying to make sense of the information himself, he had been trying to spare me the bad news. Bob had still entertained benign as an option. It had still been an option for him until the tests came back definitive.

Now there was no more speculation, no more possibilities. He stood stranded on the street facing me. He was reluctant to admit the truth. He wasn’t ready to redefine himself. He wanted to reject the label.

“I have lymphoma,” He slowly repeated the statement, looking me straight in the eyes I could hear our breathing echo in my ears.

We stood there on the sidewalk with the word “lymphoma” bobbing and dipping around us. It eventually settled down beside us. I saw him pick it up and step into the word. He pulled it up around him and zipped it up like a snow suit.

My husband had cancer.

Momentum

2009-04-29T13:24:00.007-05:00

Hey there-

Arthur learned to ride a two wheeler the other day. Henry taught him while I watched through the dining room window.

Learning to ride a bike was one of those things that had me in a panic after Bob died. I always imagined he would be the one teaching the boys this important life skill. I had visions of him running passed me on the sidewalk holding the back of the teetering bike and shouting encouraging words with that calm patient tone he had.

Instead, one evening during a block party Henry, newly five, marched past me with a wrench in one hand and his bike in the other.

"The training wheels are coming off," he announced, his blue eyes full of determination.

Moments later he rode passed me on the sidewalk. No teetering, just focused power and freedom on his face.

Arthur has been a bit slower to warm up to the physical part of life and needed some motivating to remove the training wheels. Once off, however, he was out on the sidewalk with his helmet on trying to run and jump on his bike like his neighbor friend had showed him. I quickly assessed the frustration on his face and called out to him to wait until I got some clothes on so I could come run behind him and offer those words of encouragement. (probably not as calm and patient as Bob would have been but my own version of encouragement....something like "Put the peddle to the metal buddy, you have to pick up the pace if you are going to get anywhere" type stuff. That's encouraging right?)

But before I could get through the dining room I heard Henry out on the driveway with Arthur. Had I not seen the two boys out there with my own eyes I would have thought that Bob was back from beyond to fulfill this parenting milestone he had so rudely left me with.

"Now Arthur," Henry explained thoughtfully, "it's all about momentum. Momentum is gravity's enemy."

This information was followed up by a visual presentation of a bike making a turn. As the bike neared the curve he explained that the faster the bike was going the less likely it was to fall over.

Arthur listened and nodded and then took off on his bike very slowly and cautiously. He, of course, fell right over.

"Momentum, Arthur," Henry continued, "just remember, it is all about momentum."

Giving Arthur a swift push the next time he sailed down the driveway and the boys counted the number of peddles together. One, two, three, four.

"OK, Arthur, let's see if you can get to five next time. Always remember.....momentum is gravity's enemy."

I leaned out the window in my robe and cheered as Arthur got to seven peddles the next time. Bob couldn't have done a better job, and now these brothers will always have this memory, when Henry taught Arthur how to ride a bike.

And Henry taught me about the importance of momentum.

When life threatens to pull me down with it's unexpected twists and turns, I will just keep moving. Proceed as best I can. Don't just sit there and look at the lemons, make the lemonade right? Because momentum is gravity's enemy.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Huh?

2009-04-28T09:18:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

“What would I do with them?”

This was the most common question from the conference in Dallas, referring to essential oils and the lotion and bath/body oils that I make and are available on my website.

I use essential oils every day of my life and have for about 12 years, for me it is just a matter of which oils I use and when. So my initial reaction to that question was; “Huh?”

Not very professional I know.

Since this blog is dedicated to living beyond grief, I thought I would tell people how I used essential oils throughout Bob’s illness and after his death to help me get through each day with a little beauty and style.

Hopefully this will shed some light on why I want to spread the good news about essential oils to the masses.

I will start with the morning….in the shower I used shampoo and conditioner that I had scented with the essential oils of rosemary and lemon. (I bought unscented shampoo, soap and conditioner and put drops of essential oils in them that I purchased from an essential oil supplier in Oregon) I chose rosemary oil because it stimulates ones mental capacity and lemon for its clean, refreshing scent.

After the shower I used body oil scented with bergamot, rose, orange and sandalwood. (Jojoba oil is my carrier oil of choice due to its similar chemical structure to our own skins oily secretions, giving it excellent moisturizing and emulsifying properties. It will not clog pores and is fabulous for blemished skin. Jojoba also happens to be one of the most expensive of the carrier oils. Others include almond, olive or grape seed) I chose bergamot for its mood elevating qualities, orange for its soothing and refreshing scent, rose because of its antidepressant and comforting properties and sandalwood for grounding.

Throughout treatment and mostly during the stem cell transplant in Nebraska I had Bob gargle with tea tree oil to decrease his chances of mouth sores and infection. Tea tree is antiseptic, anti-viral, anti-fungal, and anti-inflammatory. I put drops of lavender and marjoram on cotton balls and stuck them in our pillow cases for their assistance with relaxation and sleep; both oils can calm an agitated mind.

And one crazy afternoon I massaged oil infused with cypress and lavender to assist Henry after he twisted his foot in one of those hideous play areas in malls that have a room filled with plastic primary colored balls that the kids jump in and climb through. I wanted birch oil for its anti-inflammatory and cell rejuvenating qualities but cypress was the closest I could get in Omaha on short notice. I do believe that the intention with which the oils are used can assist in their healing, which is why some oils can have stimulating and relaxing properties at the same time.

At the very end I massaged Bob’s feet with peppermint oil, gliding my warm hand over his slender arch I was foolishly proud of his smooth skin. The fresh minty aroma cleared the air in that dark living room; it lifted my spirits and cleared my mind.

After Bob died I put bergamot in every soap dispenser in the house so every time I washed my hands I got a shot of it's refreshing and uplifting scent. I boiled water on the stove and dropped lavender in the steamy water when I was selling the house, giving it a relaxing and calm feel. On anniversary dates or particularly bad days I put rosemary in the steamy water. The penetrating scent was stimulating and has signified remembrance for centuries; it can also help combat depression.

I don't mean to bore people, I just wanted to give folks an idea of how the oils can be used in everyday life and can be tailored for a person's specific needs at the time. The oils I have mentioned are just a small sampling of what are available, each have their own specific chemical compounds that assist the body and mind in a myriad of ways.

Professionals could use my blend in their office, have a jar of the lotion next to the tissues or place some in the bathroom next to the sink. The oils in my Embrace blend are selected specifically for their benefits for common symptoms of grief; insomnia, melancholy, headaches, lack of appetite, anxiety. The blend has restorative and comforting properties that will last after the client has left the building.

Friends and family of people newly bereaved can purchase Embrace body oil or lotion as a complement to flowers when a loved one is grieving. Essential oils are a step beyond flowers and the bath oil or lotion will provide strength and warmth to the bereaved long after the last flower has wilted and the final casserole has been eaten.

For more information feel free to visit my website at http://www.ms-dh.com/ or email me directly at imcgoldrick@mysaintedeadhusband.com with any questions or comments.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Walk It Out Reminder

2009-04-21T09:22:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

The next Walk It Out is this Saturday, April 25th, 2009. It is supposed to be beautiful weather!

I just returned from the ADEC (Assoc. of Death Ed. and Counseling) conference in Dallas with lots of information to share about the latest research in death, dying and bereavement if people are interested.

Spring is always such a lovely time of the year, with signs of new life everywhere. It makes me think of one of my favorite quotes from the book "The Courage to Grieve", by Judy Tatelbaum.

"Spring does not refuse to come because it was preceded by winter."

Something to ponder for our walk.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Website Launch

2009-04-13T13:30:00.003-05:00

Hey there-

I am heading to Dallas, TX on Wednesday April 15th to present on the topic of the use of essential oils with grief and loss. The conference is the Assoc. of Death Ed. and Counseling.

"Healing with Scents" I call it.

I have been a bit crazed getting all of my information consolidated and looking pretty. With the help of many friends and their artistic abilities things are coming together.

The website is up and mostly functional for the conference! The big launching! Woo, hoo! There are still a few kinks to be worked out but people can check it out at www.ms-dh.com and can even make a purchase if they like! Yikes!

It is very exciting! I am bringing Mike as my marketer and Henry and I have been busy making 1 oz. sample jars of lotion to give to people at the conference who might be interested. Henry is quite good with the shrink wrap and loves to use the hair dryer. It is a family business after all.

I will let people know how it all went when we return.

Please be patient with the kinks and let me know of any glaring mistakes.

Thanks for checking in.

Irene

Boboli

2009-04-09T14:24:00.002-05:00

Hey there-

I bought a Boboli.

The pizza crust, the pre-made pizza crust, the pizza crust Bob would have never allowed in the house.

“Why buy pizza crust when you can so easily whip some up?” That’s what he always said.

When Bob plugged in the KitchenAid and got the flour and yeast from the shelf and carefully placed his stop watch on the counter so he could time the fast and slow mixing as well as the rising of the dough, a peaceful feeling would descend upon the kitchen. His face would smooth out in a focused calm and the smell of garlic and fresh pineapple would begin to permeate the house.

Music was usually involved and sometimes whistling or hip swaying would be added for good measure as he peered at the thermometer sticking out of the measuring cup, making sure the water was just the right temperature so as to not kill the yeast. Bob would remove the silky dough from the bowl, place it lovingly on the lightly floured countertop and effortlessly begin to knead it with a flick of the wrist only an experienced baker can produce.

“This is a beauty,” he would say if he were particularly pleased with the dough that day.

The red pepper, Canadian bacon and garlic was my favorite, the crust was crispy on the outside and light and fluffy on the inside. As we munched the pizza and I savored the taste sensations exploding on my tongue, Bob would analyze the crust and determine what could be changed to improve it for the next time. A little less water perhaps, some more salt, bake it a few minutes before putting on the toppings, maybe.

It was a Zen like experience for us both.

“Whipping some crust up”, takes on a totally different meaning when I am the one trying to make the pizza crust. It starts with me dragging out the KitchenAid and dusting it off, attempting to find the proper utensil for the mixer and hoping I have yeast that hasn’t expired.

When the timer on the stove goes off I can’t remember if that was for the 30 seconds on high speed or the 2 minutes on medium because I was distracted by Henry trying to cut his finger off while slicing the olives. I am never sure if the water is too warm or too hot for the yeast because I am never sure where the thermometer is (I think the boys were using it the other day when they were playing shop keeper).

When I remove the dough from the bowl it never feels silky and the flour pile on the counter goes flying everywhere after I drop the sticky dough ball onto the counter in disgust. The kitchen still fills with smells of garlic and red pepper but you don’t bite down into light and flakey crust, it is more leaden and soggy.

So, this year for Bob’s annual birthday celebration I bought Boboli. Sitting around the dining room table eating the pizza my sister-in-law looked at me quizzically and asked; “You didn’t really make all of these did you?” I shook my head sheepishly and admitted to the purchase of the offensive item, feeling guilt creep up from the pit of my stomach.

“I was going to say, nothing we made ever tasted this good.”

Ouch, that hurt.

So, we move forward. This year was the 6th birthday we celebrated Bob’s birthday without Bob and the 1st year we had store bought crust, something tells me it won’t be the last.

A wise friend reminded me that the point of the gathering is to celebrate Bob’s birth, the fact that he was alive and we all knew him and we honor him still today for simply being a part of our lives, not to make myself crazy trying to recreate Bob’s pizza crust.

You can tell when food has been prepared by a person who loves to cook and when it has been made by a person who is trying to put food on the table. Like so many things that Bob did I will never be able to recreate his pizza crust (although I do a pretty good job with his pancakes). Another wise person once told me that I can’t spend my energy trying to recreate Bob because then who would be me?

It makes me wonder, if the situation had been reversed, what would Bob be trying to recreate?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Forever 39

2009-04-03T09:44:00.005-05:00

Hey there-

Bob would have been 45 yesterday.

He died just 4 days before his 40th birthday, so he will remain forever 39.

At the time of his death the proximity to his birthday was awful.

We had already ordered a cake so my sister and some friends and I stood around the small layer cake with purple and yellow flowers and smelled the faint lavender and lemon scent slowly fill the room. "Happy Birthday Bob" was joyously written across the top. None of us knew quite what to do as we huddled around the kitchen counter and stared at the cake as if we expected it to tell us what to do next.

Now I think the two dates being so close to each other was a stroke of genious on Bob's part. These important dates can be recognized in one crazy week of emotion. (I also would like to thank Bob for dying in the spring when there are signs of new life everywhere instead of the fall or winter when it is difficult enough to endure the long dark nights and bare trees)

We have established a wonderful ritual to celebrate the day that Bob entered into this world. Henry and Arthur and I get together with Bob's mom and sisters and we make pizza using Bob's recipe and his KitchenAid. Then we set off balloons into the universe. Now that the boys are older they write notes that we attach to the balloons and we watch as they drift off, bringing good wishes to the cosmos.

It is important to honor the day Bob came into this world. Without him I would have never experienced the Pacific Northwest or discovered how much I love camping or eaten red peppers or had Henry and Arthur. Without Bob this world would have been a lesser place.

I am sorry he wasn't here for his 45th birthday. I am sorry the boys and I couldn't sing to him and go on a bike ride with him afterwards. I am sorry he wasn't here to see Henry ski down his first mountain in Colorado or perform in his first talent show.

But I am so grateful he was here and that I had the great luck to meet him and be his friend and wife. I take all Bob was with me and am a better person and parent for it.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene