If there could be a "best part" of being a young widow (that sentence is laughable, I know), it would be how people react to your situation. Have you ever seen Silver Linings Playbook? Where they tell Bradley Cooper's character not to mention her husband's death to Jennifer Lawrence's character? And he blurts out something like, "How did your husband die," immediately after their introduction? I laughed out loud at that. I probably shouldn't, but I did. However, when your husband dies, you win the right to laugh at a lot of uncomfortable things.
And I've learned that awkward encounters and questions come with the territory. My favorite question became the dating question. Strangely enough, I can only compare the dating question to that of the baby question at a wedding. It seems like the moment you say, "I do," someone asks if you're pregnant.
Would you like to know how long it took for someone to ask me if I'd date again? Better yet, would you like to know where they asked me?
At his funeral.
I'm not even kidding you.
Granted, the person who asked, asked kindly and had my best interest at heart. But hilariously enough, it was at his funeral. And what did they want me to say? What possible answer could I give, while still trying to maintain a level of appropriateness?
"No. I plan on joining the nuns in the Loretto Convent and betrothing myself to the Lord."
Though sweet, and I'm sure God would appreciate it, not believable and not for me. Besides, would a convent even take me? Do you have to get accepted? I'm pretty sure my non-existant dreams of becoming a nun died at the age of 16.
"No. I've thrown out all my razors and have decided to grow out my leg hair and follow Phish."
Though possible, I once went to a Phish concert and never stood to sing, dance or applaud. I don't believe in Phish. They are only a bedtime story filled with mythical creatures told to scare little children and yuppies.
"No. After I leave this shindig, it's hermit-ness for me!"
I like that one the best.
I, honestly, have no recollection of my answer, but the intent was always to move on. Tim made sure to tell me that moving on was my only option. I guess that's part of the gift of a long goodbye. A person can make their wishes very clear.
Shoot, even Tim had a sense of humor about the thought of me having to start over again. And who wouldn't? I've been told I'm a barrel of laughs and bad decisions. No doubt a recipe for a piss poor sitcom allowed only on FX following Charlie Sheen's show.
I remember one time, when Tim was sick, I wanted to buy a purse. (How selfish does that sound? You're sick and I need a purse. Thankfully, Tim understood the importance of purses to my being.) I begged him for that purse, as married women often must do. He, in true Tim shopping fashion, said no. "Kristen," he said in his deep voice, "Hopefully your next husband will be nicer." I remember flopping down on the bed in defeat, muttering, "Cancer has hardened you." We both laughed...and I still got my purse.
But when IS IT OKAY for a young widow to "move on?" How long does one wait to start a new relationship? My mother died in 2009 and my father STILL has yet to date. At the risk of sounding like my story belongs on Jerry Springer or the Steve Wilkos Show, I think he's a handsome man! He's successful! What's he waiting for? I ask him all the time to find me a "new mommy" with attractive sons, but I'm pretty sure he's not taking me seriously.
So if I can't follow his lead, what's appropriate when you're only 32 years old?
I'll tell you what's not appropriate, but also funny at the same time... The guys that come out of the woodwork to attempt to become your knight and shining armor. Not like I'm some hot commodity, but my experience alone could fill the pages of a comedic novel.
(If you're starting to get nervous while reading this, I might be referring to you. Don't worry. I've sworn off my memoirs until I'm 80. Pretty sure we will all long for the days of our youth and bad decisions at that point. Or perhaps you'll be dead, so you won't care. Regardless, you have 46 years. Relax.)
I remember making a note in my phone, "Note to self, there is a statute of limitation on dating a widow...and that limitation is not up." I wanted to Facebook that, but I had to draw the line at some level of widow dignity. I don't have that much left in that social media outlet and bringing attention to that kind of attention I was receiving was sure to dash my hopes and dreams of saint hood. Plus, names would have to be changed to protect the innocent (or not so innocent) and it would just further seal my non-acceptence into the Loretto Convent. Trust me.
When the statute IS UP, however, I found that everyone has an opinion. And if you're like me and you were previously married to the mayor of Whoville, that poses as more of a problem.
Tim was a very friendly person. He had friends at every establishment we'd go to. We couldn't walk down the busy streets of Chicago without someone stopping to talk to Tim. It was a blessing for me to be with such a well-liked individual, but it started to pose as a curse in his absence.
I was at dinner with my family one evening, discussing this awesomely uncomfortable subject of my new-found love life and my aunt turned to me and said, "No one will ever be my nephew Tim."
It was in that moment that my Houston knew we had a problem...and it wasn't going to be easy.
And I was right, it wasn't easy. Tim comparisons, whether conscious comparisons or not, happened instantly. Which I find unfair, not only to myself and my boyfriend, but it's unfair to Tim, as well. There was only one Tim and my moving on was not to replace him. You can't replace one human being with another. You can only move forward with yourself and hope to find someone who wants to laugh at life with you. And let me tell you what, I laugh at life a lot.
And, really, that's all that should matter to others. It should matter that I laugh, it should matter that I smile and it should matter that I love again. After all, that's what Tim wanted for me.
And yes, I said "boyfriend." How awkward was that for you to hear? It was more awkward for me to say. You should see my face when I actually have to say it to people. First I hesitate, like I have a speech impediment or as if I'm afraid to say it. Then my face gets all scrunched up and ugly looking. Like I just smelled a fart or said a dirty word. It's definitely a sight to be seen. It's just so weird to say 'boyfriend' after I've used the word 'husband.'
....But, once again, I'm learning not to care....and I'll tell you more later....
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
The Car Accident Effect
I call it, "The Car Accident Effect."
You spot a car accident from a mile away. Maybe you see an officer directing traffic or flashing lights ahead. Drama ensues. As you approach the site of the incident, your initial reaction is to cringe and turn away, but curiosity gets the best of you. Your car slows. You can't turn away. Perhaps you stop to offer help. You wonder what might have happened to the driver. You think, "How did the car end up in that position?"
"How must that have felt?"
"I wonder if everyone is okay?"
"I saw the most horrific accident," you tell your friends, family or coworkers. Later on, you might even google to see if a small town newspaper covered the accident. "Maybe I can find out what happened," you tell yourself. Your heart is heavy for the people who might have experienced loss that day.
The Car Accident Effect.
I feel like I lived my very own accident effect. I was the figurative accident. My husband and our families were the figurative accident. People spotted the drama and slowed to stare. Some offered help (to which I am forever grateful), others spread the word. We were the sad, jumbled car at the side of the road.
And though I am unable to communicate thoughts and feelings of my family members, I can tell you that, for me, it was difficult to be the focal point of pity. In 2009, I lost my mother, at the age of 58, to Ovarian Cancer. Truth be told, it was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. To lose your mother at any age is difficult. Your mother is (or should be) your best friend. There is no love that compares to the love a mother can give. And to watch the woman that took care of you, went the extra mile for you, all of your existence, waste away...It's truly an experience that I do not wish on my worst enemy.
After she died, I was determined to show my family and friends that life could go on. I was determined to show them that we didn't have time to feel sorry for ourselves. I wanted to honor my mother by carrying on, bravely and happily, with my life. I wanted others to follow.
During this time, I found out nothing upset me more than being pitied. The sadness in eyes as people asked how I was. Their pursed lips. It truly drove me insane. I had the best mother a girl/woman could ask for, for 29 amazing years. I had an amazing support system, including a loving and understanding husband, a superior family and badass friends. How could anyone pity THAT?
After we passed a year of firsts (first Christmas with out mom, first Mother's Day with out mom...), life was finally feeling like it was back to our new normal....... Until January of 2011, when my husband decided to take himself to an emergency care with flu-like symptoms. He did, in fact, have the flu. It's what else he had that no one could have expected.
Do you ever watch Grey's Anatomy? 4 or 5 doctors will file into a room and everyone will stand around the patient and their families and give serious news. That's kind of how it all went down. They filed in the room, stood around and suggested that Tim may have a cancerous tumor on his colon. Tim immediately turned his head towards me to observe my reaction. And can I just say, that moment of pure selflessness has never left me. He didn't worry about himself. He worried about me.
Shortly thereafter, surgery was scheduled and the tumor was removed from Tim's colon. His surgeon approached us in the waiting room, pictures in hand, and asked us to step into a more private room off to the side.
Most people know me to be quite calm when it comes to illness, death and sadness. The only emotion I tend to exude publicly is happiness. This is one of the the few moments that I truly lost my cool.
Tim's surgeon happily told us that his colon was repaired, good as new, to which we all sighed with relief. THEN came the "but." It had spread to his abdominal wall and he used the words, "No cure."
I remember looking out this window that overlooked a makeshift courtyard. In the courtyard there were white rocks that are often used instead of wood chips in fancy (or tacky) yards. I focused in on those white rocks, no longer listening to the words Doctor Doom spoke, and thought to myself, "I'm going to be a widow."
Somewhere between that thought and "doom and gloom" offering me a photo of Tim's cancer, I slowly stood, announced to the room that I'd had enough and exited. I grabbed my purse and my stunned girlfriend patiently waiting outside the door, and cried all the way out to the hospital parking lot. My poor girlfriend sat calmly in the car with me as I threw a child-like temper tantrum, sobbed, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. (You can judge all you want. I'm learning not to care.) Not only did my heart ache for what my husband was about to go through, I wasn't sure that I had the strength to do it all again.
And before you deem me as selfish for even making an inch of anything about myself, please understand. Anyone who has or has had a family member with cancer can relate. Every day you wake up worrying about that person. You worry about chemo, doctors appointments, CAT scans, etc. It's an exhausting worry. And for me, that exhausting worry last ended in heartache. Lightening wasn't supposed to strike twice.
Once I had gathered myself, I returned to the hospital in time for Tim's arrival from surgery. This is where we had our first few laughs. The hospital staff informed us that Tim probably wouldn't be coherent for 24 hours or so. Little did they know the strength of Tim. He was sharp as a tac within, what felt like, minutes. He asked if midgets were rubbing his legs (not so coherent) and pointed to the television to tell me that my Tim Tebow special was going to be on at 6:30 (pretty damn impressive and coherent).
But being coherent meant questions would be asked. Earlier, his mother and I discussed not telling him the outcome of his surgery. Sure enough, as the last person left the room and Tim and I were left alone, he quietly asked me to tell him the truth. "How bad is it?" I pulled my chair close to the side of the bed, grabbed his hand and by only the light of the Tim Tebow special on ESPN, I told Tim that it had spread. He asked what was next and I took a deep breath and told him, "Now we fight."
And fight he did. He fought like a champ. He repeatedly liked to tell the story, "I thought my brother was the tough one, man....But I think I'm giving him a run for his money."
And I won't tell you what he went through. I won't tell you what I saw. But I'll tell you that my faith, and the faith of our friends and family, has truly been tested. I cannot tell you how many times I sat quietly and wondered why, how, God could let such cruel things happen to such a wonderful man. We put murderers to death in more humane ways. Why does God let good people suffer?
And please make note, this is in NO WAY a "Whoa is me" blog post. This is in NO WAY an attempt to take away from the extreme amount of human decency, kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity that we were shown by others that still humbles me today. And I want you to know that I still believe in God. The day my mother passed away, I drove home to Tim and I looked up and said, "I am still grateful." The day I drove home alone, I reminded God of the same thing. I am still grateful.
And I am still determined to live my life, bravely and happily, as I vowed when my mother passed away. I know this behavior confuses some. But just as my happiness baffles, other's sadness and refusal to heal baffles me. It always will.
But the car accident effect remains. People stop to stare. They stop to look at you with pity. I would go to the store and run into someone who would stare. I would go to dinner and someone who knew someone who knew Tim would hug me and offer condolences. It wasn't easy. And it wasn't fun.
"I've lived in this place and I know all the faces / Each one is different, but they're always the same / They mean me no harm, but it's time that I face it / They'll never allow me to change."
....A little Rascal Flatts for you.... Which is hilarious because I vowed to never like country music.
The point is, and to make a long story longer, I chose to move away. Not too far away, but far enough that when I went to the grocery store, the lady behind the counter wouldn't ask me if I was still okay, the men at the bank wouldn't know my name and the kind people at PetSmart wouldn't cry at the mention of Tim. (This all happened.)
There is no guidebook for a young widow. There are no rules to follow....so I made my own. Some people don't like it. I'm learning not to care. But I'll tell you more later.
You spot a car accident from a mile away. Maybe you see an officer directing traffic or flashing lights ahead. Drama ensues. As you approach the site of the incident, your initial reaction is to cringe and turn away, but curiosity gets the best of you. Your car slows. You can't turn away. Perhaps you stop to offer help. You wonder what might have happened to the driver. You think, "How did the car end up in that position?"
"How must that have felt?"
"I wonder if everyone is okay?"
"I saw the most horrific accident," you tell your friends, family or coworkers. Later on, you might even google to see if a small town newspaper covered the accident. "Maybe I can find out what happened," you tell yourself. Your heart is heavy for the people who might have experienced loss that day.
The Car Accident Effect.
I feel like I lived my very own accident effect. I was the figurative accident. My husband and our families were the figurative accident. People spotted the drama and slowed to stare. Some offered help (to which I am forever grateful), others spread the word. We were the sad, jumbled car at the side of the road.
And though I am unable to communicate thoughts and feelings of my family members, I can tell you that, for me, it was difficult to be the focal point of pity. In 2009, I lost my mother, at the age of 58, to Ovarian Cancer. Truth be told, it was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. To lose your mother at any age is difficult. Your mother is (or should be) your best friend. There is no love that compares to the love a mother can give. And to watch the woman that took care of you, went the extra mile for you, all of your existence, waste away...It's truly an experience that I do not wish on my worst enemy.
After she died, I was determined to show my family and friends that life could go on. I was determined to show them that we didn't have time to feel sorry for ourselves. I wanted to honor my mother by carrying on, bravely and happily, with my life. I wanted others to follow.
During this time, I found out nothing upset me more than being pitied. The sadness in eyes as people asked how I was. Their pursed lips. It truly drove me insane. I had the best mother a girl/woman could ask for, for 29 amazing years. I had an amazing support system, including a loving and understanding husband, a superior family and badass friends. How could anyone pity THAT?
After we passed a year of firsts (first Christmas with out mom, first Mother's Day with out mom...), life was finally feeling like it was back to our new normal....... Until January of 2011, when my husband decided to take himself to an emergency care with flu-like symptoms. He did, in fact, have the flu. It's what else he had that no one could have expected.
Do you ever watch Grey's Anatomy? 4 or 5 doctors will file into a room and everyone will stand around the patient and their families and give serious news. That's kind of how it all went down. They filed in the room, stood around and suggested that Tim may have a cancerous tumor on his colon. Tim immediately turned his head towards me to observe my reaction. And can I just say, that moment of pure selflessness has never left me. He didn't worry about himself. He worried about me.
Shortly thereafter, surgery was scheduled and the tumor was removed from Tim's colon. His surgeon approached us in the waiting room, pictures in hand, and asked us to step into a more private room off to the side.
Most people know me to be quite calm when it comes to illness, death and sadness. The only emotion I tend to exude publicly is happiness. This is one of the the few moments that I truly lost my cool.
Tim's surgeon happily told us that his colon was repaired, good as new, to which we all sighed with relief. THEN came the "but." It had spread to his abdominal wall and he used the words, "No cure."
I remember looking out this window that overlooked a makeshift courtyard. In the courtyard there were white rocks that are often used instead of wood chips in fancy (or tacky) yards. I focused in on those white rocks, no longer listening to the words Doctor Doom spoke, and thought to myself, "I'm going to be a widow."
Somewhere between that thought and "doom and gloom" offering me a photo of Tim's cancer, I slowly stood, announced to the room that I'd had enough and exited. I grabbed my purse and my stunned girlfriend patiently waiting outside the door, and cried all the way out to the hospital parking lot. My poor girlfriend sat calmly in the car with me as I threw a child-like temper tantrum, sobbed, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. (You can judge all you want. I'm learning not to care.) Not only did my heart ache for what my husband was about to go through, I wasn't sure that I had the strength to do it all again.
And before you deem me as selfish for even making an inch of anything about myself, please understand. Anyone who has or has had a family member with cancer can relate. Every day you wake up worrying about that person. You worry about chemo, doctors appointments, CAT scans, etc. It's an exhausting worry. And for me, that exhausting worry last ended in heartache. Lightening wasn't supposed to strike twice.
Once I had gathered myself, I returned to the hospital in time for Tim's arrival from surgery. This is where we had our first few laughs. The hospital staff informed us that Tim probably wouldn't be coherent for 24 hours or so. Little did they know the strength of Tim. He was sharp as a tac within, what felt like, minutes. He asked if midgets were rubbing his legs (not so coherent) and pointed to the television to tell me that my Tim Tebow special was going to be on at 6:30 (pretty damn impressive and coherent).
But being coherent meant questions would be asked. Earlier, his mother and I discussed not telling him the outcome of his surgery. Sure enough, as the last person left the room and Tim and I were left alone, he quietly asked me to tell him the truth. "How bad is it?" I pulled my chair close to the side of the bed, grabbed his hand and by only the light of the Tim Tebow special on ESPN, I told Tim that it had spread. He asked what was next and I took a deep breath and told him, "Now we fight."
And fight he did. He fought like a champ. He repeatedly liked to tell the story, "I thought my brother was the tough one, man....But I think I'm giving him a run for his money."
And I won't tell you what he went through. I won't tell you what I saw. But I'll tell you that my faith, and the faith of our friends and family, has truly been tested. I cannot tell you how many times I sat quietly and wondered why, how, God could let such cruel things happen to such a wonderful man. We put murderers to death in more humane ways. Why does God let good people suffer?
And please make note, this is in NO WAY a "Whoa is me" blog post. This is in NO WAY an attempt to take away from the extreme amount of human decency, kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity that we were shown by others that still humbles me today. And I want you to know that I still believe in God. The day my mother passed away, I drove home to Tim and I looked up and said, "I am still grateful." The day I drove home alone, I reminded God of the same thing. I am still grateful.
And I am still determined to live my life, bravely and happily, as I vowed when my mother passed away. I know this behavior confuses some. But just as my happiness baffles, other's sadness and refusal to heal baffles me. It always will.
But the car accident effect remains. People stop to stare. They stop to look at you with pity. I would go to the store and run into someone who would stare. I would go to dinner and someone who knew someone who knew Tim would hug me and offer condolences. It wasn't easy. And it wasn't fun.
"I've lived in this place and I know all the faces / Each one is different, but they're always the same / They mean me no harm, but it's time that I face it / They'll never allow me to change."
....A little Rascal Flatts for you.... Which is hilarious because I vowed to never like country music.
The point is, and to make a long story longer, I chose to move away. Not too far away, but far enough that when I went to the grocery store, the lady behind the counter wouldn't ask me if I was still okay, the men at the bank wouldn't know my name and the kind people at PetSmart wouldn't cry at the mention of Tim. (This all happened.)
There is no guidebook for a young widow. There are no rules to follow....so I made my own. Some people don't like it. I'm learning not to care. But I'll tell you more later.
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