Get the BLEEP Away from Me!!

Take your hands off of me!

I said get away from me!

Only you don't understand it cause the words that are coming from my mouth are...

"Damn it, L! How many times do I need to tell you to pick up, wipe off, clean up your _____ (insert typical mother rant hear.)

I CAN NOT DO THIS ALONE!" I yell.

Really wanting to throttle him,

to give my hands something to do

with rage,

disappointment,

anger,

hopelessness,

and trapped-ness.

Art Nagle! Damn you, Art Nagle!

You were supposed to be here!

I picked you!

I am not supposed to be doing this alone.

Damn you! Damn you! Damn you for dying!

And damn me for only having two arms, two legs, two ears and one over-wrought tired and lonely brain!

I scream, "Death sucks!" and I slam the door.

I cry.

And then later, I pick up and keep moving forward.

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Another

I had a conversation yesterday with another widow.
Sorry, a widower
He wanted to meet me after his sister, a friend, showed him my black widow photo.

It was a conversation that felt good, connected and real.
It was a conversation with laughter and head nodding (which he didn’t see cause we were on the phone.)
It was a conversation of understanding.

It was a conversation of “Oh!! ME TOO!”
It was a conversation of faith.
It was a conversation of regret.
It was a conversation of courage and hope.

It was a conversation that made me sad.
It was a conversation that afterwards made me cry
For all that we have both lost.
It was a conversation that made me sigh for all that we have gained.

It was a conversation that reminds me that with pain comes wisdom
and hope
and profound tenderness.

It was a conversation that reminded me that while I didn’t want this life, I am moved by it
and
odd enough
grateful for it.

Grateful because I can have a conversations with a widower and recognize my inspiring journey in his words.

I can’t wait to talk to him again.

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Death Sucks

I was wearing this t-shirt the other day.

It was a "you think your life is bad, I dare you to try mine" day.

I was feeling righteous.

I was feeling mad.

I was feeling "How dare you world go on and leave me here, in this life, struggling today to just do enough.

How dare you!"

I was willing to take it out on any poor sap who dared comment about death sucking.

So I put on the t-shirt, hoping that one person would comment,

would open their mouth and say

"Life can't be that bad." or something that would let me tell them

how bad my life was at the moment.

And then I saw her.

This young woman.

She made eye contact

and came towards me, purposefully.

I rehearsed my lines in my head.

She smiled.

She leaned into me, gently holding my arm and said

"I'm so glad you are wearing that t-shirt. I sometimes think I am the only one who truly believes that Jesus will rise again. Death does suck and that's why it does not happen to the believers. God bless you."

I give her a faint smile.

I nod.

I leave the grocery story.

I
laugh
all the way home.

I take off the shirt.

My death suckiness day having come to an abrupt end.

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On a Four Star Floor

Written on Thursday, January 13, 2011 during my two day break from the kids.

I’m sitting on the floor of a four star hotel (paid for with Amex points)
I’m crying
and
I can’t seem to stop.

This is not how I wanted this break to go.
I wanted it to be about rejuvenation and rest and self-love.

Instead it feels, right now, like it’s about not enoughness and loss and fucking grief.

It feels like it's about transition and learning.

It feels like there will be no peace from the hole, the void, the confusion that has placed me on the floor of this four star hotel.

I got this email from a client, someone who should have never been a client.
She is upset with how I am working with her. I take her criticism and turn it global. I smear it all over my body.

I become
what is wrong,
instead of just my wrong action.

After two glasses of wine,
I send a bit cocky email to a guy who I like.
This afternoon, I reread it and am amazed how there is no gentleness or softness, something I like to be, I need to be, I like to be with him.

I layer that mistake on top of the one I made with my client.

I become all things bad.

And then I open up my web browser
And I see
a photo of
Christina Green’s brother (Tuscon shootings)
wiping tears away.

I stand up, sobbing.
I pace the floor.
I walk over to the window, back to the hotel door.
Then without knowing that I am doing it,
I am on my knees on the floor,
hands covering my face, forehead leaning of the floor.

I laugh for a moment, I have spent a lot of time on floors this past one year and 8 months!

And I think:
How is it I’m grieving again?
How is it that the sobs can come from a place so deep I forget it exists?

I think:
I don’t’ want this life.

I think:
This is just too hard

The kids, the dating
The business

I think:
I want it all to be easy
Because after what I have been through,

I think I deserve easy.

I want easy.

I desire easy.

I think:
Easy
is not
what this is!

One sob out, a slower breath in and I remember,
it’s not them.
It’s not what they do or say or what I write or the photo I saw that leave me on the floor.

It’s that I have forgotten
I am still a well-functioning

raw nerve.

The emotions from Art’s death are just a short dig, a disappointed client, a stupid email, a photograph away.

When will I stop being so sensitive?



Maybe that’s the
wrong
question. Maybe the question is:

When will I just give into the sensitivity and learn to embrace it?

I think

it’s what

makes me real.

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All I Can Be Is Who I Am

Pallas was assigned this book in school. I would read sections of it to her. The first time I read the section below out loud, I could not finish it. I was sobbing as Pallas watched me curiously. Mau had put into words the way I feel about being a widow.

I hope you will read the entire quote for nothing I have read has fully encompassed what widowhood means to me than this single paragraph.

Back story: Mau’s entire family and village are wiped by a wave. The wave also shipwrecks Daphne (ghost girl). As the days go on, survivors from neighboring islands arrive. Mau and Daphne (both approximately age 12) find themselves in charge of building new lives for themselves and this new nation.

From Nation by Terry Pratchett

Daphne asks, “Would you go back? If you could?”

“How can I answer you? There is no language. There was a boy called Mau. I see him in my memory, so proud of himself because he was going to be a man. He cried for his family and turned the tears into rage. And if he could, he would say “Did not happen!” and the wave would roll backward and never have been. But there is another boy, and he is called Mau too. And his head is on fire with new things. What does he say? He was born in the wave, and he knows that the world is round and he met a ghost girl….. He called himself the little blue hermit crab, scuttling across the sand in search of a new shell, but now he looks at the sky and knows that no shell will ever be big enough, ever. Will you ask him not to be? Any answer will be the wrong one. All I can be is who I am.”

There was a woman and her name was Kim.

I see her in my memory and she is a fairly happy person and she has a husband and three children and dreams of being “somebody.’ She cried for her husband when he died and couldn’t see how she could live with such great loss in her life. She would say “I can’t do this.” She would wish her husband alive, make bargains in order to bring him back. And would spend long periods of time wondering around her house, functioning but unable to think or move without her husband. She wondered how she was going to get through the day.

There is another woman named Kim too. And her mind and life are on fire! She says “OMG! I can do so much and I feel so happy!” She was born in her husband’s death. She sees his death as his last gift to her. She has discovered herself and her courage. She sees that life is full of hope and fun and new things. She sees her abilities are growing and she discovers new ones too.

Can I ask her not to be? All I can be is who I am.

I spent the last moments of 2010 making a list of all the things that I am grateful for in that year. In contrast, I spent the last few moments in 2009 (the year my husband died), praying/hoping/begging God to make 2010 better. I gave 2009 the finger as I stepped into 2010.

I gave 2010 a sweet kiss and hug as I stepped into 2011. I cannot go back. And I cannot ask me not to be, either. The old me and the new me make up this me whose potential I am quiet excited about.

If you are new to this journey, if you don’t know how you will make it, know you don’t have to know.

None of us knew.

I still don’t at times.

But there is one thing I do know, the pain does not last. It comes less frequently and with every time, every cry, every longing, I find nuggets of courage and light.

In 2010, I discovered my strength, my courage and my ability to handle adversity. It was not pretty and yet I stand here before you in my newly discovered inner beauty.

And by jove (I have always wanted to use that saying!) if I can get here, so can you.

Welcome to 2011! May you marvel and celebrate your strength!!

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Wonder Woman Again

On Tuesday night, I went on a second date

dressed as

Wonder Woman.

I know...right?!

The back story: We tried to get together and then he was making cracks via email about how busy I am and then he asked if I was out saving the world, or something like that.

He made a joke about my invisible airplane. His last comment to me before we met was "Don't forget your cape!"

And like someone shoving me in the chest, I reacted. I thought "I'm gonna wear my Wonder Woman costume."

Wonder Woman

I bought the outfit in 2006 one month after Art was diagnosed with cancer during his first battle.

I wanted to be a queen that year until Langston, then age 9, pointed out the Wonder Woman costume and said "Mom, you should be this!" I laughed as I paid for it at the register.

Art almost fell over when I met him at the door after he was being escorted home from a chemo treatment.

My friends thought it was the best costume .... EVER.

And then I put it way.

And then, three years later Art died.

So on Tuesday, I'm sitting outside a wine bar, in my car, dressed as a blonde Wonder Woman. And I'm on the phone talking to a widow friend of mine.

"This is stupid." I say.

"No it's not Kim. It's who you are. You are Wonder Woman!"

I take it in.

I feel my superpower rising.

She is right.

I am Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman is back, I think.

Wonder Woman with the faults that do not make her weak but actually make her strong.

Wonder Woman is real.

Wonder Woman has been who I have been all this time, since the moment he was diagnosed to this moment, one year and 8 months after his death.

I realize Wonder Woman is back.

I wear it to meet this guy who is laughing so hard he can't talk for a moment.

I stand there laughing too because he enjoys the joke so much, because I had the balls to say "Fuck it" again and show up in a costume for a second date.

The next day I am laughing because he has written out the lyrics to the Wonder Woman theme song and sent them to me and... he asked me to accompany him to a Christmas party.

He likes Wonder Woman.

The costume will not go back in the Halloween box.

It will stay with me, in my closet so that

I can remember

that Art's death

has brought back

Wonder Woman.

It's nice to see her again.

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Ezra

"Mom, I wish Daddy hadn't died then you wouldn't have to do so much."

His statement came at the end of an argument about monitoring their Xbox use, something they bought by pooling their allowance and working jobs for neighbors.

I had just listed, in detail all that I have to monitor. The list was something like this

"I have to make sure you:
get up for school
eat breakfast
get ready for school
get to school
get picked up from school
get fed snacks
get fed dinner
get your homework done
get your teeth brushed
get to bed on time...and then
I paused for effect
I have to start all over again the next morning."

And after his comment, I feel like shit.

And then I hug him.

He smiles, gives me a kiss and I know that this burden that he carries as a child without a father will not be too big for him. He walks away returns for a quick hug and then says

"We'll be Okay. We already are."

It is then, on those words, I know he will be Okay. I know because he has that stubborn focus of his father and my tender heart.

He will be OK.

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Uncle

Warning: This post may be unsettling. It was written in June. I didn’t post it because I didn’t want someone calling Child Protection Services, a threat that was made. Please know that I am better. Please know that I continue to fight and function. Please know that I am here.


I thought about it today.
And yesterday
Actually been thinking about it for 5 days straight.
Considering different ways to do it. Quick, painless ways to do it.

I’ve been thinking about killing myself.

The fact that I am writing about this means, I think….I am working past this feeling.

I hope.

This running of me, the running of my children’s lives, the running of my business, the worry of money, the worry of asking for help…..again and again and again.

It’s stretched me beyond ….


I am so thin, wispy…..

I can’t see myself.

Father’s Day, a school wide celebration called Moving Up Day, the death of a husband’s a friend, the running out of money, the knowledge again, that there is no protecting my children, just shielding them and offering them tools that I feel leave them ill equipped to handle life.

Tools to cope, where are mine?

I know suicide would be selfish.
I know that it is possible that my children would never understand.
And I know that I am in extraordinary pain.
And I know that dying would be quieter, easier and would end the pain. I know this is what my husband felt when during his battle with cancer he said to me

“I’m just so tired.

I just want to rest.”

And he did finally, get to rest.

I know that you, the reader may call me cowardly, a horrible selfish mother.

And you would be right and you would be wrong. The pain is so intense that I feel my kids would be better off without this monster mother I have become, roaming freely in the world, angry, mean, blowing up for no good reason at random. Spewing hate and self doubt, shame.

I find myself looking at another shopping list, listening to another bickering session between my kids, packing another lunch, making another play date phone call, trying to stretch $1 into $2 and then going to bed and doing it all over again the next day. I find it all too much. And I ask,

“Is this all there is?”

After the intense loss, after starting to be OK without him, after the grief has turned deep and mellow, is this all there is? Is this what I was fighting to get too?

I remember when Art and I would share the weekends. One morning one of us got to sleep in. For a few hours in a week, one of us got time to ourselves to do whatever we wanted to do. I remember we provided for each other with back-up, guidance, help, humor (I have forgotten what it feels like to have a really big belly laugh!) I remember feeling like I could fall down cause not only was there someone there to pick me up but to clean up the mess as well.

I’m not allowed to fall now.

The wave of grief has me so far down that swimming to air, if I knew which way was up, feels like it would take too much energy. Energy I simply don’t have.

My friend said, “Imagine BP (the oil company) losing ½ their staff during this crisis. That’s what happened to you. You lost half your staff when Art died and you were in crisis and still are.”

That makes me smile. It puts an image to the burden I feel.

He follows with “You need a break.” And I want to smack him. How do you take a break from kids who can’t stand to have you go away?

Everyone says “You need a break." and yet no one suggests exactly how that break is supposed to happen, nor do those words follow with an offer of help, in any way. It’s like the airplane thing when they say put the mask on yourself first. What if your mask is all tangled up, barely within reach, in knots?

I am tired. I have been beaten.

Uncle life, Uncle. You win.

I am no good.

I am no good to my children.

I am tired and I just need a rest.

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Ours to Mine

Our wedding rings are no more.

His was so huge. My 6'6" husband had fingers that matched his size.
When he died, I removed his ring
and put it into the ring box that I kept my diamond in.

I don't remember when I took off my wedding bands.
Long enough so that wearing a ring on my "wedding" finger feels odd.

I needed something that would represent us, who we were, who we will always be.
Something that spoke to our commitment to each other, our fights, our love making, our sense of humor, our thought provoking, intelligent conversations.

Something that said moved 8 times, birthed two kids at home, had dogs, interrupted each other to read interesting or beautiful sentences from books. Something that said didn't like to be tickled, loved to hold me, incredible father, kind, endearing, stubborn. Something that spoke of our love of Monty Python, riding race bikes and moving our bodies in any form of athleticism only because it felt good. Something that spoke to our competitiveness with each other. Something that held our dissatisfaction of the world and our desire and actions to make it better.

I needed something that would not get in the way of my committing to someone else, but something that would remind me that yes I was fiercely loved for exactly who I am.
Yes, I was worth the time.

Something that will give me hope to being loved like that again ... only differently.

And so I had our rings, his wedding band, my wedding band, the anniversary band and the diamond he gave me, I had them melted and put back together, differently.


Just like me.

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Act of Faith

Friday, August 27th
I put Langston and Pallas on a bus today to attend Camp Erin, a weekend camp for grieving kids.
I drive away before the bus does.
And on the 10 heading west, in traffic (thankfully) I cry.
Putting them on a bus is..

an Act of Faith.

Faith that they will come back to me. Faith that I will not have to go and identify their crushed bodies at some retched morgue. Faith that they will come back to me as whole as they left me and hopefully full of an experience that will leave them more emotionally capable.

Every time I put them in a car with the sitter, a friend or drop them at camp, it’s...

an Act of Faith.

I know death. I watched it come and take Art. I know death needs no reason, it just comes when it wants.

My husband’s no longer life if proof of that or I can just turn on the news.
---
Saturday, August 28th
I wake up and death is in the house.
I feel it and it creates a vacuum. I’m afraid to either exhale or inhale for fear of the realization of what? That the day is not what it seems to be in my morning haze. Like the days upon days after Art died.

I fear my lack of control. I fear that two of my kids are not here, under my pretend “protection.” The protection I believe is mine to offer and dole out as need.

I suck in air hoping I will look back on today, even tomorrow and smile at my silly fears. At my need for faith in order to let them go.

And my friends brush it off, “Of course you have to let them go!” they say. Having no experience with the closeness of death, they don’t see it, sitting there, resting and watching.

Yes I know I have to let them go, but every time I do it, the urge to place my hands on their arms and bribe them to stay with a video game, their favorite dinner or ice cream rises. Sometimes strongly, most of the time represented only by a tiny yelp.

Ezra stirs next to me and I know if it were not for him, I could not bare being in this house that is as quiet and shaky as the days after Art died. The house feels airless, the sunny day false. I feel as if I am inside this bubble, unable to hear or touch and see things as they really are, just like after Art died.

I sneak out of bed, trot off to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror

“Happy Birthday,” I smile at myself. I’m 46 today. It’s an...

Act of Faith

that I believe I will get to my 47 birthday.

I crawl back into bed and lift the covers to see Ezra’s chest rise and fall, reassuring me that it will continue to do so. His breathing grounds me, pushes the hysteria away.

---
Wednesday, August 25
As the driver is transporting the kids and I to the airport, an 18 wheeler gets cut off by a little black Mazda, the truck weaves into our lane, our driver weaves onto the shoulder next to the concrete divider. We are all moving, us wedged and I see the truck begin to jack knife and then

it corrects itself.

Other than a few “Oh God’s” I am steady and calm. After the moment passes, I remember it’s...

an Act of Faith

to expect we will all get home to LA in one piece. An act of trust and an act of ignorance.
--
Art and I once had a discussion how parents practice acts of faith every time they drop their kids off at school. His job was to make sure, to the best of his ability, that the faith is renewed every afternoon when those parents come back to get their children. He reminds me how ballistic parents get when that faith is shattered.

Since he has died, I know what death really is: random, disjointed, the essence of unpredictable. I feel how unprotected I am from those random, disjointed, unpredictable accidents. The kind that leaves those who hear about them shaking their heads.

And some days I rub it off of me like a few specks of white fluff on my black sweater and other days I wear it like a lead jacket.

I keep committing Acts of Faith. It’s easier to do when I am engaged, and busy. But on those days where I allow myself to be idle, where I allow a moment to see through all the doing, the

Acts of Faith

scare the bejeezus out of me.

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Grief-in-Action

I'm here at Camp Widow in San Diego.
I videotaped the room full of us widows clapping.
And now that I am trying to post it, I'm not sure it's working.
Frustration is on my shoulders, my wrinkled brow and scrunched up eyes.
After an hour of searching and trying solutions, I don't know if any of them will work and I feel
defeated and completely

unable to cope.

Unable to cope. Words that came out of my mouth daily in the beginning. I couldn't cope with getting dressed or making a decision, like what time should Lori come get Ezra? Deciding what time I needed to start dinner to have it on the table by 6:30 not only alluded me, but I didn't even understand how other people went about making such decisions so quickly and easily. I felt crazy. I was crazy. Crazy with grief.

Then as the hysteria lowers (like month 9 or 10 after his death) and as a new normal creeps in (1 year and 1 month) I feel like coping is in the bag, checked off the list, mastered!

Normal feels normal.

And Oh MY! What was that? I feel like the new Kim has not only risen but has no intention to burst into flames again any time soon

until

things outside of the new normal happen. New things like posting a video to a blog.

As I search for solutions to the video issue, I can't sort out what the websites are telling me.
I reread the same sentences over and over and over again thinking that on the next read, I will get it, knowing that I should be able to understand it.

Confusion rises. (What are they telling me to do) then frustration (Why aren't these directions clearer?) then anger, first at the directions but really now it's at myself. My unable to think is grief-in-action.

Six months after Art died, I decided to bake a cake. I read the directions, line by line, gathering the ingredients on the counter. I would read "2 eggs," get to refrigerator, open it and then forgot what I was supposed to be getting. So I would go back to the recipe, read "2 eggs," reach for the refrigerator and forget again. My brow furrowed, my lips scrunched up and my shoulders tightened, I had to admit this was grief at it's worse. This was the grief that no one sees. This was grief-in-action!

And it is in that memory, right now, that has my confounded and a bit put off. Grief? It's been a year and 3 months, for goodness sake and

now I am laughing!

1 year is nothing in the grief land. One year is enough time to come down from the hysteria, maybe establish some kind of normal. It's NOT enough time to establish a new coping ability to handle the rest of the stuff like missed flights and uploading videos to a blog.

And I'm here, 21 floors above 150+ widows who totally 100% get that. So I'm leaving the video. I hope it works. If not, I'll work on it:

when I'm not under a time pressure,
when I have the space to think
when I have soaked up all
the goodness
and okayness
and support
and REAL widow normalcy
that comes from hanging out with a bunch of people who
unequivocal
get
this mess
called
grief.

That is when I will figure the darn video out

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November 17, 2009 Shot

I've been shot,


several times

and only now do I realize I'm bleeding.

I hold my hand as the blood flows into it. My insides are coming out. There is no stopping it this time, I am sure I will bleed to death. I stare curiously at the stuff oozing from me. It's familiar. My guts came out often in the beginning, days and weeks just after he died. So often that when I had "normal" days, I jittered in nervousness, my hand uncomfortable in its emptiness.

As I bleed, I retrace each wound, hoping (quiet silly actually) that if I know where they come from I will be able to duck it next time, to drop fast enough that the bullet will whiz overhead.

---

Wound #1 Fall Coming (Home Coming) at Windward.

In honor of Art, Langston is the guest team captain, flipping the coin, then jumping in the middle of the football team, the mascot for the moment. He as big as them, but his 12 year old grin giving away his delight at being with the "big guys." I'm laughing watching the man-child wallow in his man-childness.

Varsity Windward Coach Scott (the man responsible for putting Art's initials on the helmet)

Ezra with the Helmet of Honor

Langston getting riled up with the Windward Varity Team before the game....which they won!

---

Wound #2 The Art's Memorial Run

I greet friends at the Art Nagle table, humbled by their early morning presense just to run with him and me.

I run with, for and because of Art. I beat him too, competitiveness NOT going to the grave with him! I cross the finish line, and squat by the fence. Holding onto it as I cry and cry and cry.

some of our friends who ran with Art.

Art's dad at the finish line.

The Art Nagle Table

Marda writes the names of those who have lost their battle with cancer, her brother included

Julie Talbert, the kind, gentle and expansive soul behind the Talbert Family Foundation

---

Wound #3 Last Week at The 7th Flag Football Game

I remember Langston's 7th grade team winning. I remember cheering and laughing and jumping up and down. I remember hearing "Championship game is tomorrow." I remember sitting on the bleachers, at what used to Art's school and now is only Langston's school, looking every now and then waiting for Art to appear, entering the field with his distinct long gate, hands in pocket, to see his son play.

Langston with Nana and Grandpa.

---

Wound #4 The Championship Game

Windward 7th Grade flag football team wins the championship, I am jumping up and down (and peeing in my dress!), yelling and screaming. He runs fast, he catches two touch down passes, he intimidates their quarterback. I growl with his fiercenss, loving the way he has found his aggressiveness on the field, putting it inside his big size, making him intimidating.

At the end of the game, I swear that I hear Art say "Great job, kiddo!" to Langston with pride and awe at a child that shows talent in an area where his parents have none.

The Winning Team

-----

And then it's today. Before the tears come, I put my hand out, expecting to feel him in his spot. For one more second I wonder what time he got up to go for his run. And then I am crying before I'm fully awake.

A moan passes my lips, causing them to vibrate. It shakes my vocal chords. It is then that I know I am bleeding again. Loosing bits of myself in the realization (again and again and again) that he is no more. He's missed all of this. He will continue to miss all of this. It is so fundamentally sad that I am dumbfounded, mute, frozen, no words to adequately express this loss.

And yet....while the blood gushes from my body, it stops sooner than last time. I know quickly that, no, I won't bleed to death, it no longer takes me hours to realize that. The clean up takes less time, too. I am not as sore afterwards.

7 months was yesterday. I forgot till today. I have to get the car, pick up the kids and do our routine that we have established. The one that does not include him in any way.

And I smile at myself. I smile at them. We are doing this. This thing that I never thought I could do is being done. And this time I drop to my knees with gratitude and laughing.

It's a nice change.

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October 11, 2009 Dinner is Served!

I have successfully put dinner on the table for TWO WEEKS straight! Granted they came from bags and boxes, except for tonight when I made pesto. Granted they contained vegetables ....at least twice. Granted Ezra could have cooked it himself had he been allowed to work the stove and if he could tackle words like "microwave" and "combine."

BUT I put dinner on the table! I didn't panic when 5:00 rolled around. I breathed, opened both freezers and found items that could be cooked in 30 minutes. One time, I even defrosted something the NIGHT BEFORE!

I danced in the kitchen on nights 10, 11, 12, and 13 to the music of "I Can Take Care of Us All By Myself (almost)" On night 14, I opened a bottle of wine and did the happy-ya-for-me-triumph jig without spilling a drop. He danced and laughed with me. He knew I could do all this. He's glad that I now know too.

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September 17, 2009 Talking to Strangers

Peace comes tonight in the form of 8 strangers. Mexican and Jewish, white and other, one young with child on the way, one older with a young child, spiritual, long haired, out going and quiet, well dressed and unclipped toe nails.

We are strangers. We come together and shut the door, shut the unclear, confusing and sometimes mean world on the other side of the door. The latch releases in its hold and we exhale.

I miss her, he states. I am angry too! she says. I crave to be touched, says another. We all laugh, nodding our heads. We hear, nodding our heads. We cry nodding our heads. We all nod our heads, we all get it, we all understand.

And there is wonderment at the same emotions we strangers share. For now it’s our new Utopia, the closest we can come in this grief to it. This Utopia offers understanding and silence and space to raise our voices, stare out our hands, to sob, to swear, to joke and gafaw. No excuses necessary.

And when we open the door, our fellowship continues in a near-by restaurant, discussing our lives before we got here, what we are doing now that we are here. You have two dates? Smiles. This is a picture of my son, he said. And I look and my mama bear roars and I want to defend that child. I know that I love him. I know that I would defend him with my life and he’s not mine, but he is because he belongs to one of us.

And finally the world pushes in on the clock. We leave. I get in my car and I feel lighter, sweeter – less full of rage, more full of relief and calm and Okness. I drive home – knowing that they are driving home too and I feel safe. If my phone rings tonight, if I make someone else's phone ring tonight, it will be answered and there will be no should, no don’t worry, no you’ll get through this. There will be a space held for me (I for them) and I can cry or they can cry, or rage or laugh or whatever.

They know what it’s like, these strangers. They know my grief because it’s their grief and I love them for that. I love them in a place I have never been before.

They make this journey manageable when nothing or no one else can.

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August 19, 2009 No Words and Sex

My silence has been about not finding the right words to express the trip to Maine. Nothing fits.

I can only share that I have a family. They don't look anything like me. They are tall and white and live in Maine. And when I arrived in my LA-ness chocolate-colored skin they pulled the wagons round claiming me. I don't know if it's always been the case and I didn't notice or if without Art by my side they decided to make a stand. Either way...I have family in Maine. And I no longer refer to them as his family. They are my family.

Because none of the words I set down on paper to describe my trip to Maine, I share photos.

AUUUGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!


I can't upload the @()#$$(*@ after being on the phone with Verizon @($)#* twice today after my internet was on the brink for @()#@*(# days!

And what I really need to do is honestly....have good sex.


Really.




I just need to get laid. Not f-----but properly laid. Are there any patient men out there who will take more than two minutes for 4-play? (Art took forever and it drove me crazy!)





Since my husband is dead and I can't think of man who is not married that I should bestow my post-death virginal experience on I will have to take my frustration out on this damn computer and website that can't seem to up load three stupid @*(#$@*# pictures.





And its not working! And I'm even more mad cause when you're a widow, no one talks about the lack of sex. My marriage had sex (although not enough) and it was good and pleasant and I miss it and need it and want it.




A widow (ha or a woman) who wants sex is like the persons yelling "F---!" in the public library. Everyone looks up, stares, giggles a bit and hopes you don't come near them.

And I think good widows don't want sex, bad widows do. Well put this behind (which, by the way, is a nice, round, sexy behind!) in with the bad crew. I am a full on woman, damn it and sex is good.



Harrumph!

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OMG Tuesday Tip #1

The OMG (oh my God) I Need to Help Tuesday Tip© 2009

Every Tuesday I post a tip on how you can help someone you love and who is in need.Help comes in many unique and wonderful ways, these tips can help you help others in those alternative ways, beyond bringing a meal.

To get more tips, go to http://www.omgineedtohelp.com

OMG I Need to Help Tuesday Tip #1
Don’t say “If you need anything, let me know.”

When you say “anything” it puts the burden on the person who is in crisis. They now need to figure out what you mean by “anything.” Did you mean scrape the crude off the kitchen floor, sit with them at 2 am or babysit a sick child? Even if you mean anything, it’s just not a helpful statement. You’re goal it to relieve some of the burden, this statement only adds to it.

Instead, be as specific as possible about what you want and/or can do. “I’d be happy to be the on-call babysitter.” Or “If you need groceries last minute, please call me!” The person in crisis is more likely to remember your offer if it’s specific. It’s helpful because they don’t have to guess at what you mean by “anything.” If it’s specific the person is more likely to call you.
OMG Bonus Move: Write your name, phone number and the specific offer on an index card and place it on their refrigerator.

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July 3, 2009

Motherhood, widowhood and sexiness
collide on Appleton Way and Glydon Streets in Venice.

My cute 46 yr old divorced neighbor drove those cross streets yesterday while I was helping Ezra get his bike up on the curb. I was in running shorts, top, and sneakers. A ratty bandanna was keeping the hair off of my face and I was wearing “ode du three hour old sweat” from a run. I felt frumpy, wholly unattractive and guilty. He passed before I could wave back.

“Crap, he always sees me when I look like shit.” I think.

“Why do you care?” I retort.

I stand straight as Ezra peddles away from me, and start walking, far behind the cute driving neighbor…confused.

I knew how to be sexy for Art. It was not in the taking off of my clothes (although that always helped). It was in a laugh, a nuzzle in the crook of his neck and that dress he loved on me. It was in knowing he was watching me while I wrestled with Langston and in the power that flowed from me after a long hard workout. It was in my touch of those wonderfully commanding thighs of his.

Motherhood sexiness ebbed and flowed around, under and through the kids and illness and bills and arguments, pregnancies and dress sizes. I rediscovered it, lost it and found it over and over again, each time stumbling on different hues of our connection.

I have always enjoyed a good flirt, an arm touch or a straight out gawk from or towards other men. I did it from behind the “sanctity of marriage.” Looking was good. Touching…not worth the risk.

I can touch, now. Only…OMG! What do I wear? Will I be like those young girls who laugh a bit too hard, smile too broadly and lean in a bit too close? How many dates before I sleep with someone?

These questions startle and concern me then make me laugh out loud.

As a new widow, I stand open and ridiculously vulnerable. How does this whole man thing work again?

It’s the second coming of being a teenager only less awkwardness and with the wisdom of who I was, am and becoming.

Curiosity mingles with fear and fascination. This will be an adventure!

An untraveled path to a destination I can’t quite comprehend.

When will it begin? When will I decide it's time to start?

I continue following Ezra down the long side walk.

"Man, I hope that he at least noticed my tone legs!" I say to myself and giggle.

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