The Strength of a Single Heart

It is often said that parenting is the hardest, most rewarding, and most important job that a person can undertake. All of that has been true for me, but I posit that there is one job even harder: single parenting. I had an opportunity to reflect on my time as a single parent yesterday, and recall just how grueling it was. I also had a moment or two to appreciate how those years helped me tune in to my deepest wells of strength and resilience, and how I learned that I am so much stronger than I ever knew.

From an emotional standpoint, I became a single mom about halfway through my first husband’s illness. I can recall vividly the moment at which I understood that, whether or not he survived the cancer, I was going to be the sole provider and caregiver for our family. The weight of that responsibility was great, and the loneliness profound. Extended family and our beautifully intricate network of friends bustled around us in those last months to make sure that we had a casserole in the freezer, a ride to radiation, or enough string cheese for the kids’ lunches. While I was so touched by everyone’s efforts, there was no way to counter the sense of impending doom. It was a time when we experienced overwhelming generosity and crushing despair from one moment to the next.

After Peter passed, it was the silence that was the most bitter pill to swallow. Much is written in the widowed community about the days that come after the initial shock begins to let up. The dark gives way to normalcy for others while you as the widow(er) are left to your own devices with your broken heart. Everywhere you turn, you are reminded that you once had a partner, and now you do not. The sight of that bowl on the high shelf that he used to reach for you now moves you to tears. The cozy spot by the window where she curled up and read to your children now feels cold and isolating.

As a widowed parent, these triggers aren’t only metaphorical gut punches. They are calls to rise to the occasion when all you want to do is collapse. You can’t just leave the dishes for someone else to do because there is no one else to do them. You can’t take an afternoon off from homework with your kids, or dinner prep (or take out), or getting them to school in the morning, or bath time, or reading stories, paying the electric bill, or, or, or…It’s all on you. The action figures in the toilet. The busted boilers in the dead of winter. Each boo-boo, each load of laundry, every single middle-of-the-night spontaneous expression of the latest school-borne stomach bug on the hallway floor.  It’s all you, baby. And guess who has to get up the next morning on two hours of sleep and do it all again? That’s right, you are the lucky winner!

God forbid one kid has an event at school at the same time as another! On those days I often wished I was an engineer so I could come up with a way to perfect bi-locating. (A note to the entrepreneurial-minded: that technology would make a MINT!)

Businessman being pulled — Image by © CJ Burton/Corbis

Then there are those extra special times that make widowed parenting feel like the vortex of terror. Father’s Day (or Mother’s Day) are among the most brutal. One year I inserted myself  into  a Father’s Day celebration at my twins’ school. Dads in suits to my left, dads in uniforms to my right, dads who I saw often at school and dads who I had never seen before. All the Dads. There I was, smile plastered on, doing my damnedest to fill a void that I could not possibly fill – sticking out like a giant, rather pathetic reminder of our loss. To this day I am not sure if that was the right call. But the alternative was for no one to show up at all, and to my mind that was not an option.

Even the smallest hiccups can feel like battles in an endless war. Yet single parents, widowed or otherwise, have a pretty remarkable ability to tap into their inner superhero and get sh*t done. It’s true that the loneliness was sometimes too much for me to bear, but during those years I also learned how to prioritize in ways I never had before. I figured out how to identify people who were worth our energy, and let go of those who were not a good fit. I stuffed my pride and practiced asking for help. Over time, I discovered that I could  get a helluva a lot accomplished, and that I could push through stuff I never thought myself capable of before. I began to understand what it was to rely on me, and that, with all of the messiness and missteps, I am the kind of person that I would want to hang around. I learned to live with myself and to be content in that life.

My oldest and me on a “date night” a year or so into single parenting.

 Miraculously, Tom and I met only a few short years after Peter’s passing, though it seemed like an eternity while I was in it.  He came into our family as a whirlwind of hope and optimism, poised to team up with us to create the life that we have all dreamed about – a life of safety, stability, and love. Whenever I start edging into aggravation with his idiosyncrasies, or playing my martyr violin to the tune of “I am the only woman in a house of high-octane, chest-thumping, ready-for-action males and all I want is a bathtub and a rom-com,” it doesn’t take long for me to remember how good I have it.  I am in fact ridiculously spoiled.

Those years on my own made me a better partner and a better parent. I know how to stand in my own power, how to assert my needs, and how to advocate for my kids. Single parents get all this because they absolutely must. The buck stops with them. Just as with any parent worth her/his salt, single parents will figure out what they need to do in order to do right by their children, and they do it tirelessly all day. They are their own teammates. They are among the fiercest, most resourceful, most steadfast people out there. At least that has been true in my experience.

When the truck came yesterday to dump an epic amount of mulch in our yard, I was the only one healthy enough (60% of us were struck down by illness this week) or focused enough (hello, ADHD) to get it from the driveway to the garden. That ol’ violin started up again; for a few minutes I let it turn into a Concerto of Pity and Whining (I can’t believe I have to do this all by myself…it’s too hot…my body hurts…why is it always me??? Blah blah blah).

My boy, King of the Mulch Mountain

But I remembered how much harder it used to be. I thought about my own mom who became single in my teen years, and how she made it work despite a, shall we say, less than compliant daughter. I thought about the many single parents who I love and how they are rockin’ it. I remembered that those years without a partner made me strong and capable, and how silly it is to take that for granted. Talk about a first world problem! So I spent the better part of a sunny Saturday communing with the birds and schlepping that pile of dirt, bucket by bucket, into its proper place. Don’t tell my husband, but I actually loved every minute of it.

My years of single parenthood were definitive for my kids and me. While we struggled with fear and anxiety (and often still do), we also knew that no matter what we have each others’ backs. There are so many single parents out there who are going it alone, and who contend with challenges that I cannot even imagine. As difficult as it was for me, there are a multitude of others who are faced with much more than I ever was. Still they get up every morning, tuck their kids in each night, all the while never revealing their shiny iron-clad costumes under their mild mannered work wardrobes. Truly heroic.

Single moms are often a footnote in articles about parenting, and single dads typically don’t even get so much as an asterisk at the bottom of the page. In this season of renewal, reach out to one of these amazing folks. She or he is part of shaping the upcoming generation and equipping it with some serious know-how, grit, and perseverance. Find out ways that you can help her or him, because s/he likely won’t ask. Help him or her to feel seen. If you have the chance, offer a dinner, a trip to the store, a ride to school or activity, or perhaps a friendly cup of coffee after a long day. For me, those small offerings of support were often the difference between hope and despair. Not only will you help make that parent’s day a little better, but you will be example her/his children of kindness and community. And that’s on all of us.

Mother’s Day from the Widowsill

Today is Mother’s Day. It is a day of joyous celebration for many. We take stock of the gift of life, of our origins, of lessons learned. We are offered the iconic brunch, special gifts by those who love us, flowers and jewelry made of elbow macaroni. So much sweetness is a delight for those of us who are blessed to be surrounded by our munchkins, partners, parents, and friends.

This greeting card moment is very well and good, and I am so appreciative of the lengths my family has gone to in order to make me feel honored and adored today. But there is another side to it. It was not so long ago that Mother’s Day felt to me like the worst possible day to endure. It was my rock bottom. From the outside, it can be difficult for some to understand that days like these – days that feel like the whole world is happy – can be deeply troubling for those who have been left behind by loss. Truthfully, holidays with any sort of specificity like this can be poisonous for the grieving.

I would love to tell you that five years after my first husband died everything is hunky dory and all traces of anguish have melted away into the bliss of new beginnings. But that would be a big fat fib. I love my life now without reservation. We are blessed beyond measure. I will say this again and again: it is because of my experience of loss that I can appreciate today so profoundly. With that experience, of course, comes latent pain. It just does. I have developed some skills over the years to deal with that pain, with the support of many amazing people. While the list of coping mechanisms is long, they generally can be summed up in these categories:

1)    Be honest. In the beginning, I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy running from grief. With three young kids, a job, a house, pets, family and friends, I felt like there was simply no room for me to fall apart. I pushed through it. I avoided it. I medicated with drinking and socializing. I worked a lot. I worked out a lot. Anything I could do to not face the demons of agony that lived in my gut during those first couple of years. It was straight up survival mode.

Guess what? It caught up with me. When it did, I would crash so hard that I could barely breathe. I had serious, real physical responses to the weight of the sorrow of whichI refused to let go. After a few brutal rounds of fighting the grief and failing miserably, I began to give in to the need to speak honestly about it. It took a little figuring out, but after a while I was able to discern to whom I could spill my guts without judgment or mess, and to whom I could not. This safe circle allowed me to spew all of the emotional toxins that I would carry around; it became a process that was and is essential for healing and clarity.

Just like we process out waste after a meal, so too must we release the emotional crap. Yep, I said it. Identifying people who will listen with compassion is a must. Be they friends, a support group, a therapist, an online community who shares an experience or an interest (my circle was and is made up of all of these), if they allow you to safely purge your stuff, then allow them to listen. If you don’t have safe people in your life now, find them. Check out this website for a place to begin: www.soaringspirits.org.

2)    Be present. Mindfulness teaching tells us that pain often comes from the discrepancy between our expectations and our reality. (I am not a Mindfulness instructor. For more on this wonderful school of thought and practice, see my amazing friend Maria’s website: mindfulnesstrainingsrc.org if you are in Western NY, and http://www.plumvillage.org for a sense of the whole approach).  When we are grieving a profound loss, the grief is not just for that person. We grieve for all that we hoped and dreamed would be with that person but is no longer possible. It is natural and wonderful to dream with the person with whom you share your life. When that person is no longer there, the dreams die too.

.As the shock of loss begins to fade into the routines of the new normal, it is incumbent on the ones left behind to begin to live in the present reality without our loved one. This is a practice that takes patience, compassion for self, and good old-fashioned time. It involves an awareness of the world going on after yours has stopped, and making the choice to rejoin it again. It means making peace with your broken heart, and accepting that your life will never be what you thought it was going to be. It means choosing to believe that it can be something else in this very moment, and the next, and the next. Slowly, the practice of living for the present day becomes a habit. Even on the days when I struggle to be present, I know that I have done it before, and that I can do it again tomorrow.

3)    Begin new traditions. When Peter died, many of our little family’s routines did too. The rituals that we practiced together were tossed away because they were too painful to hold on to without him. Slowly, a few new and lovely events have become cherished new traditions. Now, rather than dread these markers of loss, I actually look forward to some of them.

One of these traditions, quite happily, is Mother’s Day with my dear long-time friend Allison (see #1). With a near 20-year history, Allison and I became single moms at about the same time, and we both have boys around the same age. We decided a few years back that we would celebrate each other on Mother’s Day rather than wallow in solitary misery. We carried on this tradition today, and we are all so glad to be each others’ chosen family. As she was leaving this afternoon she said “isn’t it great that we have built this family together?” It certainly is.

Invaluable friendships.

Our collective kiddos acting like “wild animals.”

4)    Remember gratitude. I know this can sound trite, but it really does work. Finding even the smallest detail for which you can feel grateful may serve as a stepping-stone toward new growth. Feel the beauty of the sun on a spring day. Find the hope in a child’s voice. Experience the simple relief of a warm bath. Anything that can bring you a bit of peace in your day is worth notice if you can find gratitude for it.

Another dear friend and fellow widow likened early grieving to writhing like a worm on hook: there you are impaled and wriggling, staring your life in the face, at the mercy of forces greater than you, totally vulnerable and seemingly with no recourse. I found this analogy quite accurate. So find little bits of solace, however small or brief, that can help you heal and become well.

5)    Be compassionate with yourself. This is super tough. Many of us are taught that displaying emotion is weak, and that mistakes are unforgivable. But that is utter nonsense. It is human to experience times when we need shoring up, when we fail miserably, and when we fall apart. In grief, the pain is sometimes so overwhelming that we act out or behave in ways that we would otherwise never consider. This is a bitter truth, but a truth nonetheless. If we are to find new life after loss, then we must be kind ourselves. Ask yourself if you would judge a friend in your position the way you are judging yourself. Chances are you would have compassion for that friend. Remember that when you start in with the self-flagellation. And repeat steps 1-4.

There is no cure-all for grief, but we are built to endure. I woke up this morning with every reason in the world to be happy, and I was. I was also a little bit sad, and that is OK. I have learned to accept that allowing for vulnerability is a path to greater self-knowledge, and compassion for others too.

Happy Mother’s Day to all who are open to happiness on this day. To those who are not, please be gentle with yourself. Have faith in your ability to love again. If you didn’t have the capacity for great love, then you wouldn’t hurt so much. If you have done it once, you just might have the courage to give it another shot someday. In the meantime, know that you are not alone.

Welcome to Widowsill

Once Upon a Time…

Girl meets boy in the Big City. Boy and Girl fall in love in a mad whirlwind. They marry with fanfare. They adopt three beautiful sons, each of whom has his own quirks and undeniable charm. They enjoy an imperfect marriage, but a happy one. Twelve years in, Boy is suddenly and quite dramatically diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. After a short, exhausting year of fighting for his life, Boy leaves this world far too soon. Before he goes, Boy teaches everyone around him to cherish each moment.

Girl is now a “widow.” Girl despises that label, and defies it with every ounce of her will. Girl falls apart. Girl is drowning grief. Her beautiful sons both keep her afloat and challenge her at every step. Girl is near the edge. Girl’s friends and family circle the wagons.

Girl makes an abrupt change and relocates to a city in which she doesn’t know a soul. Girl keeps anger and mourning at bay by busying herself with big projects and big dreams. Girl makes mistakes. A lot of mistakes. Girl is totally discombobulated. Girl lives with pain. She sometimes lashes out. She sometimes hurts people. She beats up herself daily. Girl is a basket case. Her sons are her motivation to get up in the morning. Otherwise, Girl would probably not get out of bed. Ever.

Then, slowly, Girl begins to regain her footing. She remembers she is strong. She breathes in the kindness of others. She recognizes joy in the eyes of her boys. She finds a few quiet moments and learns to listen to her inner voice. She sings a little more than she did before. She starts to find beauty in their collective ability to make it to the next day, and the next, and the next. Girl discovers genuine gratitude. She accepts, reluctantly, that she is a “Widow,” but that she is far from alone. At about the age of 37 (better late than never), Girl finds that she is not a girl any more. Girl is an empowered, creative – albeit a little nutty – determined Woman.

Time passes.

Woman meets Man. Man has a story too. Man has been through Hell. He has been to the dark valley, isolated, and been paralyzed by hopelessness. He has emerged wiser and with a profound appreciation for the light. He has found courage and character in his journey. Man is on solid ground now, connected to his community. He has been searching for a partner. He has boundless love and gifts of sunshine to share.

Woman and Man fall in love in a mad whirlwind. Man and the beautiful, quirky, charming sons also fall in love with one another. Against odds and logic, they become a family.

The Family is an amalgamation of stories. They have come together under unusual circumstances. Each member knows sorrow. Each member knows heartbreak. Each knows that any day can be the one that changes everything in an instant. They are a family that understands the bottom. They are a family that is rising together.

This Family knows gratitude. This family lives in hope. This Family, for all of its messiness, believes in love.

The above is only one of many versions of the story of my family. Over the years, I have written about our story in other forms, but the common denominators consistently have  been gratitude, hope, and love.

My own practice of gratitude keeps me focused on growth and allows me the courage to believe in our ability to thrive. That is something that was hard won, and is easily lost if taken for granted. I don’t pretend to be a master, but I do know how it works for me.

My happy place is sitting in my comfy chair at my own little windowsill and looking out into the world through the lens of my experience: my “Widowsill” if you will. From here, I will be offering stories of my family, of challenges we face, of our high-octane moments of giggles and regrets, and anecdotes of how we manage to make our life together rich in ways none of us thought possible.

I will also share inspiration and wisdom from other sources that bring me peace, laughter, or a perspective that I hadn’t considered before in the spirit of entering into a thoughtful, respectful conversation with those of you who are so inclined to add your voice to it.

I am honored, and grateful, for you to join me.